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.

IMAGINE MY SURPRISE

IMAGINE MY SURPRISE

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1995



Surprise me.

Not that you haven’t already.

The day we met,

I unintentionally stepped on feet;

you set me straight.

I expected an explosive barrage of rage;

it was not to be.

I kept my distance,

not knowing what to expect.

Imagine my surprise

when friendship developed.

We’d meet,

our paths crossing,

and always,

always

you offered your friendship,

yourself,

nothing less.

Times, too many to count,

that you picked up the pieces

of my life,

my heart,

and never once asked in return,

can not be ignored

or forgotten.

There came a time

when I thought someone else would do;

I saw you less as I tried

to make it work.

When he left,

shattering my heart into so many pieces,

you were there,

soothing wounds I swore would never heal.

Imagine my surprise.

It seems amazing that

the one who was “only” a friend,

the one who I never meant to hurt

and did

may very well be

the one who could make me the happiest,

there all the time.

Imagine my surprise.



If we're lucky, we all run into people who surprise us in a good way.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.