MIDNIGHT MAGIC

MIDNIGHT MAGIC

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1990



Magic must have visited last night.

Standing on the porch at ten,

I felt the light,

fall rain.

The air had cooled -

"Only from the rain,"

we had agreed.

We went to bed.



Just before midnight,

the children stirred.

"It's cold, Mama."

We covered them,

then stood,

huddled together by the kitchen window,

and watched

as the rain

turned white

and fluffy.



Back in our bed,

we watched the

eerie blanket fall.

The oak

outside our window

became a powdered beauty.



By one,

the snow had stopped.

The wind came,

blew with all its might,

and pushed the slight

powder onto the ground.

It was bitter,

the wind,

and froze everything

with its icy stare.



By morning,

our oak had

become glass-like in its appearance.



Magic had arrived.



A brief description on the seasons changing. This comes from my book Poetry Unassigned, 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.

TRIBUTE

TRIBUTE

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1986



You're gone.

Almost three months,

and still missed as much as

if it were yesterday.

The children play;

I long so much to tell you

how they fare.

My youngest

has quit asking

to see you,

his surrogate grandma.

How quickly a little one forgets,

puts into subconscious,

no longer talking of "Dor-dor."

You used to laugh when he called you that.

Now he's filled with other people,

Chuckie, Ty-ty, and baby Christina.

You'd laugh at what he calls the baby.

I read something yesterday;

it reminded me of you.

I can picture you reading it,

and telling me,

"And then, he always said..."

the way you'd told a story

a hundred times before.

Some stories you'd tell often;

I'd never let on I'd heard it before,

or at least, heard it that way.

I'll miss you,

and forever curse the

disease that

took you.



I first met Doris while volunteering for a local fire department. She was the main dispatcher, who was a surrogate mom to many of the people passing through. She died of cancer.

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

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.

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.

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

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.

RAGE

RAGE

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1989



I am mad.

There is a seething, furious anger

fighting to claw its way out,

like a lion from a cage,

like a tiger from a netted trap.

I turn myself inside out with my rage.

I have found your promises to be lies;

your sweet food turns bitter in my mouth,

from cottony air to stones in the pit of my being.

My rage tears at my innards,

threatening to do harm.

I wonder to who?

Possibly more to myself.

So,

I take a deep breath,

turn from raging, seething lion

into a large timber wolf,

a sly red fox,

and wait calmly –

I can do that, you know –

while you destroy yourself in your own trap,

get what I need

that you refused to give to the one you promised

it to

from your self-destructive self,

then leave to the sound of the cool, crisp air,

rejoicing that the sounds it makes in the trees

replaces your deceitful words.

From my collection titled Poetry Unassigned, which is looking for a publisher.

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.

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.

TURN LOOSE MY HEART

TURN LOOSE MY HEART

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1990



Turn loose my heart.

Your love attempts to wrap itself around me

like a vine,

choking my heart and emotions

in its stranglehold.

I have no use for your love.

At least not now,

and probably not ever.

I've been hurt too often

by those claiming to be different,

who "tsk-tsk" at atrocities

committed by those who came before,

all the while planning their next moves,

variations of those same crimes

trying to mask the stench

rising like the fog of their deceit.

And so,

turn loose my heart.

Let me chop away the vine of your alleged love

before I die from an emotional coronary.



Haven't we all felt this way, when someone who is too intense, needy, or just plain wrong reaches for us?

From my collection titled Poetry Unassigned, which is looking for a publisher.

THE LOSS OF A FRIEND

THE LOSS OF A FRIEND

for Dick; book store owner, extraordinaire

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1994, 2005



"He died," you say.

The words echo impotently,

as strange and empty

as though you had told me

it rained one day in 1852.

I hear you, I understand,

but somehow, it does not seem real.

Last week, when I stopped by

you mentioned he had been feeling ill for several days,

and would not be down, that rainy afternoon.

I heard him upstairs,

occasionally scrapping a chair on the floor,

or coming down hard when he stood up,

thumping and shuffling around above us.

The weekend before, while we talked in the back room,

he had come in from his office-cubicle,

and, leaving to get you a Coke from next door,

offered to bring me back one.

I showed him my hot-coffee-in-icky-styrofoam,

and thanked him, anyway.

And now, "He died Monday."

Just over 24 hours since I heard him.

Never made it to the procedure to make him better

(but maybe not well),

which, had Wednesday come,

he might have been too weak for.

The past two days,

I have looked at the ceramic porcupine

you gave me from the shop,

as though to reaffirm it (or he) is still here.

This morning, I looked out my kitchen window at

the overcast sky, promising rain,

and noticed birds huddle on the power line

like so many musical notes.

I counted to see how many birds there were

in this melody.

Oooonnneee,

(half hidden behind the neighbor's chimney)

two, three,

(I've never bought into the reincarnation stuff;

I share the Christian belief of

one birth,

one life,

one death,

one afterlife per person)

four, five, six,

(I almost feel, though,

that I can sense your spirit

with these notes

shivering against the impending rain)

seven,

eight,

nine, ten,

(you had a great record collection in

your store -

Big Band,

jazz,

everything)

eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen,

fifteen,

on the top line,

numbers sixteen and seventeen

one line lower,

and three more -

eighteen, nineteen and twenty -

on a third line at a right angle.

Suddenly,

as if on a quiet count from

a Big Band Beat,

they fly,

bringing your spirit soaring with them.



This is based on a real death. Dick owned a bookstore in Pinellas Park, Florida for the last few years of his life. It was a funky place with new and used books, several shelves in the middle of one room with tons of vinyl records, and a definite feel to it. He also had several comfortable chairs in the first room just inside the front door, along with a coffee urn and a pot of hot water for the selection of herbal teas and cocoa offered free of charge. His office was next to a staircase in a small room; the staircase led to his apartment above the bookstore.

Dick's death came as a shock; he'd been sick for maybe a week, and his significant other kept the store going until his death, then had to make the necessary calls to friends. At his memorial service, held at the bookstore, she chose small knickknacks to pass out to regulars to remember Dick by.

Most of this poem was written shortly after Dick's death, the last 5 lines in 2005. It took me that long to finish it.

This is part of a growing collection tentatively titled Working Class Poems.

TRAIL, EARLY EVENING

TRAIL, EARLY EVENING

by Robin Shwedo

©Robin Shwedo, 2014



Evening walks are the counter-point to those in the early morning.

Mornings feel fresh;

the day's heat hasn't made the air

too oppressive,

except in August.

But evening walks are better for unwinding,

decompressing from the day.

I follow my usual path,

heading south to the end of the street

then head cross-country.

Going through the park's back entrance,

the sounds and sights of little league games explode nearby.

Cheers, shouts,

the loud tink! tink! of ball on aluminum bats resounds

from adjacent diamonds.

On the other side of the ditch,

the stable's owner exits the barn, heading for the pastures.

Horses standing by gates

stomp and whinny,

toss heads

as they wait their turn to head inside.

I get to the avenue as a car passes,

slows,

then turns into the townhouse community.

On the dirt path,

ditch now on the right,

townhouses beyond,

the light is different.

Sun's rays dappling trees' leaves

between townhouses and ditch.

A light is on in the dining/living room

of one of the townhouses,

one of the few with the blinds open

during the day.

An old couple,

white haired heads touching,

sitting at their dinner table,

watching game shows.

A middle-aged woman –

their daughter, maybe? –

brings their plates,

kisses the top of their heads,

then,

grabbing a mug,

sits beside them.

I head farther down the dirt road.

A woman,

sitting on the porch swing of the fenced-in house on the left,

looks up and waves.

Farther still,

past the house,

the woods' shadows deepen.

On the right,

beyond the ditch,

the community's back wall

separates townhouses from another stable.

A man is exercising a horse.

I haven't seen him riding

for more than a year,

since he finished taking

Saturday morning riding lessons.

Another horse stands in a grazing area

between exercise area and barn.

It looks over,

whinnies,

goes back to grazing.

I turn back,

past woods,

fenced-in yard,

woman still readying on the porch,

past townhouses,

where the older couple and their daughter

laugh over something,

the happy sound wafting through the air.

Cross the street,

now on the same side of the ditch as the stable,

opposite the park.

The owner,

her sister,

and several others

are bringing horses in,

feeding them,

talking over the low sound of a radio,

playing a country-western tune.



There is a path near my house that I frequently use for my walks/runs/bike rides. This poem was written on 4/16/14 after an evening walk that inspired this.

There's a very definite difference in the feel of an evening walk or run compared to doing the same in the morning, as many people will attest to. This poem is part of a new book of poetry tentatively titled Poetry for My Mother.