REBEL
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1995
“Sit down and shut up,”
he orders with a snarl.
I have been to hell and back,
seen things -
no, experienced them -
that no living being,
human or otherwise,
should know exists.
There are abuses which,
bad enough when done by unknown,
are a thousand times worse
when done in the name of love.
There are those who bully for what they want,
who fight without conscience against us all,
unless someone is brave enough to
STAND UP
and break the cycle.
Sooner
(or later)
the beaten spirit does one of two things:
either it breaks, withers and dies,
or becomes a strong warrior,
becoming one who will fight back against the wrong.
I have lived too much to go back.
Now, looking for new relationships,
I see through the gauzy,
glittery
starry-eyed good times,
and frequently see to the center,
the rigid unyielding core of a person.
I have to to survive.
And so,
I slide from the stool by the restaurant counter,
stand tall, strong,
and,
looking him straight in his surprised eyes,
state in a loud,
clear,
strong voice,
“I will not sit down.
I will not shut up.”
I know I've posted this poem here several times. But many of us, at one time or another, find ourselves having to stand up for what is right.
This poem is part of my book Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is looking for a publisher.
Friday, October 27, 2023
Wednesday, October 25, 2023
THE WHISPER
THE WHISPER
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1995
I am loud.
I love vibrant colors -
Pillarbox red, midnight blue,
emerald green, splashy yellow,
in-your-face orange,
and sounds so colorful,
they make your heart dance
like a whirling kite in a
high wind,
bobbing,
dipping -
flutes, wind, laughter.
The down side
is loving rainy days,
where the only color
is gray,
with the neon signs
reflecting off the
wet pavement,
and the wind howls
as it drives the downpour,
gusting across the road,
slapping legs and back.
I am loud,
and love extremes,
usually the intense,
boisterous ones.
And when I met the
man I love,
how did he call to me?
He whispered.
This was written during the mid-1990s and is part of my collection titled Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares. The book is currently looking for a publisher.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1995
I am loud.
I love vibrant colors -
Pillarbox red, midnight blue,
emerald green, splashy yellow,
in-your-face orange,
and sounds so colorful,
they make your heart dance
like a whirling kite in a
high wind,
bobbing,
dipping -
flutes, wind, laughter.
The down side
is loving rainy days,
where the only color
is gray,
with the neon signs
reflecting off the
wet pavement,
and the wind howls
as it drives the downpour,
gusting across the road,
slapping legs and back.
I am loud,
and love extremes,
usually the intense,
boisterous ones.
And when I met the
man I love,
how did he call to me?
He whispered.
This was written during the mid-1990s and is part of my collection titled Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares. The book is currently looking for a publisher.
Monday, October 23, 2023
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.
Sunday, April 30, 2023
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.
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.
Saturday, April 29, 2023
BIKE RIDE, JULY 1
BIKE RIDE, JULY 1
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 2017
I'd been a runner for years
until the remnants of an old injury
side-tracked me with pain.
It wasn't so much the day-to-day stuff that hurt,
more like the pounding-on-pavement
that aggravated it.
But there it was:
my bike,
taking up space
and calling to me.
Ride, it called.
So I did.
The first day of the second half of the year
fell on a Saturday.
Running clothes on
(still a runner),
I peddle down the driveway
and head for my running-route, cross-country.
The nearby stables,
smelling of horses,
sweet hay,
and manure,
went by quicker than I'm used to,
while the smells and sounds
fill the air.
Several horses whinny,
and a radio fills in the void
between chatter
as two women clean the stable,
another grooms a horse.
Keith Urban finishes a song,
and Dolly Parton begins
as I ride out of earshot.
Across the three-lane avenue –
one lane in either direction,
separated by a turn lane –
I continue cross-country.
There's a spot
just past a moved-in house on the left,
a canal for rain over-flow and town houses on the right,
just past where the woods begin,
that I can feel loved-ones.
That may seem strange,
but it always had a sense of mystery at this spot,
a place reminiscent of the woods
my grandmother and I passed by several times,
a place that seemed to spark
Grandma's imagination.
“Did I ever tell you about the time...,” she'd begin.
And so I think of Grandma as I ride through here.
I've since begun thinking of others,
dead and gone,
but not forgotten
by any stretch,
as I pass by.
Back on the three-lane avenue,
I pass the front of the town houses
with their blooming Hibiscus shrubs
in yellow,
pink,
and red
along the sidewalk.
One of the townhouses
sports a couple of neon signs
on the porch facing the sidewalk,
an older couple sitting under the signs
while drinking coffee
and talking.
I continue on my ride,
lost in my thoughts,
waiting for the time
I can run,
but enjoying the scenery
all the same.
Written on July 1, 2017. This is part of a growing collection, titled Poetry for My Mother, and is a good partner to my poem titled Running.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 2017
I'd been a runner for years
until the remnants of an old injury
side-tracked me with pain.
It wasn't so much the day-to-day stuff that hurt,
more like the pounding-on-pavement
that aggravated it.
But there it was:
my bike,
taking up space
and calling to me.
Ride, it called.
So I did.
The first day of the second half of the year
fell on a Saturday.
Running clothes on
(still a runner),
I peddle down the driveway
and head for my running-route, cross-country.
The nearby stables,
smelling of horses,
sweet hay,
and manure,
went by quicker than I'm used to,
while the smells and sounds
fill the air.
Several horses whinny,
and a radio fills in the void
between chatter
as two women clean the stable,
another grooms a horse.
Keith Urban finishes a song,
and Dolly Parton begins
as I ride out of earshot.
Across the three-lane avenue –
one lane in either direction,
separated by a turn lane –
I continue cross-country.
There's a spot
just past a moved-in house on the left,
a canal for rain over-flow and town houses on the right,
just past where the woods begin,
that I can feel loved-ones.
That may seem strange,
but it always had a sense of mystery at this spot,
a place reminiscent of the woods
my grandmother and I passed by several times,
a place that seemed to spark
Grandma's imagination.
“Did I ever tell you about the time...,” she'd begin.
And so I think of Grandma as I ride through here.
I've since begun thinking of others,
dead and gone,
but not forgotten
by any stretch,
as I pass by.
Back on the three-lane avenue,
I pass the front of the town houses
with their blooming Hibiscus shrubs
in yellow,
pink,
and red
along the sidewalk.
One of the townhouses
sports a couple of neon signs
on the porch facing the sidewalk,
an older couple sitting under the signs
while drinking coffee
and talking.
I continue on my ride,
lost in my thoughts,
waiting for the time
I can run,
but enjoying the scenery
all the same.
Written on July 1, 2017. This is part of a growing collection, titled Poetry for My Mother, and is a good partner to my poem titled Running.
Friday, April 28, 2023
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.
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.
Thursday, April 27, 2023
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.
Wednesday, April 26, 2023
WORDS UNSPOKEN
WORDS UNSPOKEN
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1986
Grandma spoke a lot.
"Marie is doing better today."
"Oh?" I ask into the long-distance line,
static crackling and snapping,
"Was she ill?"
"Just a cold."
Grandma spent the springs with us.
By then, the snow was old.
"I need a change."
Which meant, "I'd love to see you."
She'd buy the kids clothes,
giving them out,
watching the smiles.
"Look, Mom, Granny gave us jelly shoes!
Baseball mitts!" Whatever the
occasion said.
"It's only money," she'd reply,
eyes sparkling.
The look said love.
As relations drifted,
shifted,
changed,
she alone said,
"If you love him, stay.
But if you love him better apart,
go.
It's up to you. Alone."
Meaning, "I'll love you either way."
The last spring,
the last week,
she said,
"You'll love being alone again.
You'll love having your own space;
to see me go."
This after a tense afternoon,
us dancing back and forth,
stomach in knots.
"You'll be glad to be home,"
I replied.
"Trips are nice; so's home."
She smiled;
I did, too.
Air cleared,
we came to a loving,
uneasy,
funny tender
truce.
December,
she began talking trips.
"March'll be here soon," she stated,
the line dancing with distance.
"So will you," I replied.
"How's Marie?"
"Better today."
"See you soon."
"Definitely. In March."
"March."
The phone clicked off and,
for a moment,
I listened to the
thin, faraway sound
on the line.
March came,
along with the mail.
"Your Grandmother wanted you to have this,"
said the note inside the box.
Her wedding ring -
initials inside, a date.
"She always spoke of you with love."
Marie had signed the note.
Written shortly after my grandmother's death in 1986. This is part of Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, which is looking for a publishing home.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1986
Grandma spoke a lot.
"Marie is doing better today."
"Oh?" I ask into the long-distance line,
static crackling and snapping,
"Was she ill?"
"Just a cold."
Grandma spent the springs with us.
By then, the snow was old.
"I need a change."
Which meant, "I'd love to see you."
She'd buy the kids clothes,
giving them out,
watching the smiles.
"Look, Mom, Granny gave us jelly shoes!
Baseball mitts!" Whatever the
occasion said.
"It's only money," she'd reply,
eyes sparkling.
The look said love.
As relations drifted,
shifted,
changed,
she alone said,
"If you love him, stay.
But if you love him better apart,
go.
It's up to you. Alone."
Meaning, "I'll love you either way."
The last spring,
the last week,
she said,
"You'll love being alone again.
You'll love having your own space;
to see me go."
This after a tense afternoon,
us dancing back and forth,
stomach in knots.
"You'll be glad to be home,"
I replied.
"Trips are nice; so's home."
She smiled;
I did, too.
Air cleared,
we came to a loving,
uneasy,
funny tender
truce.
December,
she began talking trips.
"March'll be here soon," she stated,
the line dancing with distance.
"So will you," I replied.
"How's Marie?"
"Better today."
"See you soon."
"Definitely. In March."
"March."
The phone clicked off and,
for a moment,
I listened to the
thin, faraway sound
on the line.
March came,
along with the mail.
"Your Grandmother wanted you to have this,"
said the note inside the box.
Her wedding ring -
initials inside, a date.
"She always spoke of you with love."
Marie had signed the note.
Written shortly after my grandmother's death in 1986. This is part of Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, which is looking for a publishing home.
Tuesday, April 25, 2023
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.
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.
Monday, April 24, 2023
FALL AFTERNOON
FALL AFTERNOON
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1985
Fall afternoon.
The season's change snuck up on us
during the night,
catching us only
partially
unawares.
"Temperatures should dip tonight,"
the weatherman said
at eleven
last night.
Summer's heat is gone.
We knew it couldn't last;
the sweltering air was getting old,
anyway.
Soon,
we'll be eating stew
and lots of spaghetti,
putting away the
outdoor grill
for another year.
We go for a walk after dinner,
savoring the tart-apple-crunch feel of the air,
making our faces pink
as we smell
the acrid smoke rising from the neighbor's chimney.
Soon,
the leaves will
go into their magic show,
turning red,
orange,
yellow,
before
falling,
brown,
dead,
to be
raked into piles.
We'll put large potatoes
and corn,
wrapped in foil,
near the bottom of the piles,
and then add a little of our own colors
(red,
orange,
yellow),
dancing into the afternoon air,
warming us (in our sweaters)
as it burns the leaves
and makes the potatoes and corn
into something
almost too good to enjoy.
Except we enjoy it,
wolfing down the food.
(Even the children eat the skins -
the icky skins
they usually leave.)
Ah, the fall,
the smells of the smoke,
the foods,
the leaves rotting after the rains,
the settling of the earth,
the settling in of everything;
the sounds of crunching leaves,
the laughs of trick-or-treat,
the settling house;
the feel of the cooling air,
the rough wool sweaters
and cotton flannel shirts.
The sun
finally
sets
(early)
amid the colors,
and we are ready to relax
inside,
preparing for the days ahead.
This was written to evoke memories of a northeastern (U.S.) autumn. This poem is from my collection Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, currently looking for a publishing home.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1985
Fall afternoon.
The season's change snuck up on us
during the night,
catching us only
partially
unawares.
"Temperatures should dip tonight,"
the weatherman said
at eleven
last night.
Summer's heat is gone.
We knew it couldn't last;
the sweltering air was getting old,
anyway.
Soon,
we'll be eating stew
and lots of spaghetti,
putting away the
outdoor grill
for another year.
We go for a walk after dinner,
savoring the tart-apple-crunch feel of the air,
making our faces pink
as we smell
the acrid smoke rising from the neighbor's chimney.
Soon,
the leaves will
go into their magic show,
turning red,
orange,
yellow,
before
falling,
brown,
dead,
to be
raked into piles.
We'll put large potatoes
and corn,
wrapped in foil,
near the bottom of the piles,
and then add a little of our own colors
(red,
orange,
yellow),
dancing into the afternoon air,
warming us (in our sweaters)
as it burns the leaves
and makes the potatoes and corn
into something
almost too good to enjoy.
Except we enjoy it,
wolfing down the food.
(Even the children eat the skins -
the icky skins
they usually leave.)
Ah, the fall,
the smells of the smoke,
the foods,
the leaves rotting after the rains,
the settling of the earth,
the settling in of everything;
the sounds of crunching leaves,
the laughs of trick-or-treat,
the settling house;
the feel of the cooling air,
the rough wool sweaters
and cotton flannel shirts.
The sun
finally
sets
(early)
amid the colors,
and we are ready to relax
inside,
preparing for the days ahead.
This was written to evoke memories of a northeastern (U.S.) autumn. This poem is from my collection Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, currently looking for a publishing home.
Sunday, April 23, 2023
LIFE, IT SEEMS
LIFE, IT SEEMS
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1995
Life,
it seems,
is what happens to you while you’re
waiting for Something Good to happen.
While you’re waiting for
Dinner out with that Special Someone
in a five-star restaurant,
candles on the table,
the scent of roses in the air,
your best clothes on
(and, of course, you LOOK GOOD),
you fix meat loaf and maybe mac and cheese,
and, as it cooks
you
clean the bathroom.
And Life,
it seems,
is what happens while you’re
waiting for something exciting to happen.
While you’re waiting for
the world’s greatest director to “discover” you,
giving you the greatest part in the best movie,
earning you Awards galore,
you throw another load of laundry into the washer,
then do the dishes.
And have you notice that
Life is what happens while you wait
for something of Great Importance to happen.
While you wait to discover the cure for:
AIDS, cancer, and the common cold,
thus ensuring a Nobel Prize
(which, of course, is secondary),
you put out the garbage
and mow the lawn.
Life,
it seems,
is what happens while you
wait for something wonderful to happen.
Unless,
of course,
you plan for it in advance.
Part of Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is looking for a publisher.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1995
Life,
it seems,
is what happens to you while you’re
waiting for Something Good to happen.
While you’re waiting for
Dinner out with that Special Someone
in a five-star restaurant,
candles on the table,
the scent of roses in the air,
your best clothes on
(and, of course, you LOOK GOOD),
you fix meat loaf and maybe mac and cheese,
and, as it cooks
you
clean the bathroom.
And Life,
it seems,
is what happens while you’re
waiting for something exciting to happen.
While you’re waiting for
the world’s greatest director to “discover” you,
giving you the greatest part in the best movie,
earning you Awards galore,
you throw another load of laundry into the washer,
then do the dishes.
And have you notice that
Life is what happens while you wait
for something of Great Importance to happen.
While you wait to discover the cure for:
AIDS, cancer, and the common cold,
thus ensuring a Nobel Prize
(which, of course, is secondary),
you put out the garbage
and mow the lawn.
Life,
it seems,
is what happens while you
wait for something wonderful to happen.
Unless,
of course,
you plan for it in advance.
Part of Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is looking for a publisher.
Saturday, April 22, 2023
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, April 21, 2023
BEACH, AT SUNSET
BEACH, AT SUNSET
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1995
After a tense week of dealing with the impossible,
I pull myself away
to totally “veg-out” at the beach;
as time
(or fate)
would have it,
I arrive before sunset,
but just barely.
Slowly,
steadily,
the sun begins its descent towards the Gulf.
I keep a watchful eye on it
as I walk towards the water’s edge;
once there,
with sandals in hand,
I wade in, ankle deep,
and, following the shoreline,
watch as the sun edges
closer
toward the horizon.
Nearby,
several screaming sea gulls
swoop and dive,
chasing each other around
before settling
on the beach.
A pelican,
large and awkward,
dives for a fish;
at the last second,
it folds up,
looking as though shot,
then with delicate swiftness,
it snatches a fish,
eats and leaves.
It is then that the sun
slowly
sinks
into the Gulf,
looking as though it, too, has been eaten,
consumed by the water.
The sky above turns a soft peach-and-orange
as the water becomes a steely gray.
Slowly,
I wander away,
refreshed.
This was written after a stressful week. I was driving cab and dropped someone off at home near the beach and decided to go for a walk on the beach. This is part of my collection Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, currently looking for a publishing home.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1995
After a tense week of dealing with the impossible,
I pull myself away
to totally “veg-out” at the beach;
as time
(or fate)
would have it,
I arrive before sunset,
but just barely.
Slowly,
steadily,
the sun begins its descent towards the Gulf.
I keep a watchful eye on it
as I walk towards the water’s edge;
once there,
with sandals in hand,
I wade in, ankle deep,
and, following the shoreline,
watch as the sun edges
closer
toward the horizon.
Nearby,
several screaming sea gulls
swoop and dive,
chasing each other around
before settling
on the beach.
A pelican,
large and awkward,
dives for a fish;
at the last second,
it folds up,
looking as though shot,
then with delicate swiftness,
it snatches a fish,
eats and leaves.
It is then that the sun
slowly
sinks
into the Gulf,
looking as though it, too, has been eaten,
consumed by the water.
The sky above turns a soft peach-and-orange
as the water becomes a steely gray.
Slowly,
I wander away,
refreshed.
This was written after a stressful week. I was driving cab and dropped someone off at home near the beach and decided to go for a walk on the beach. This is part of my collection Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, currently looking for a publishing home.
Thursday, April 20, 2023
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.
Wednesday, April 19, 2023
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.
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.
Tuesday, April 18, 2023
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.
This 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.
This is part of my collection titled Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, which is looking for a publishing home.
Monday, April 17, 2023
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.
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.
Sunday, April 16, 2023
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.
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.
Saturday, April 15, 2023
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.
Friday, April 14, 2023
FOGGY MORNING
FOGGY MORNING
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 2023
Morning starts off dreary,
as though it had rained
hours ago.
Then,
when it should be clearing,
fog moves in,
blanketing the area
like an old
handmade quilt,
tucking in around
neighboring houses,
making one feel pleasantly safe.
I step outside
to bring the garbage can
from the curb,
and watch the fog
thicken,
move in,
surrounding the neighborhood,
muting the sounds of
cars passing by,
birds calling,
the gate opening
and shutting.
An hour later,
the sun peaks out,
pushing aside the gauzy veil.
From a new collection titled Painted Words, which is still being added to.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 2023
Morning starts off dreary,
as though it had rained
hours ago.
Then,
when it should be clearing,
fog moves in,
blanketing the area
like an old
handmade quilt,
tucking in around
neighboring houses,
making one feel pleasantly safe.
I step outside
to bring the garbage can
from the curb,
and watch the fog
thicken,
move in,
surrounding the neighborhood,
muting the sounds of
cars passing by,
birds calling,
the gate opening
and shutting.
An hour later,
the sun peaks out,
pushing aside the gauzy veil.
From a new collection titled Painted Words, which is still being added to.
Thursday, April 13, 2023
In Absentia
In Absentia
for Mom
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 2016
I used to write for my mother.
It was something that connected us,
first as Mother/daughter,
later as writers,
then as...
well, I'm not sure how to describe our relationship.
Relationships can be confusing, complicated.
As a child, I knew writing was important.
It was something Mom did.
As a 1950s mom,
when women weren't supposed to work
if they were married to a middle-class man
she found her Bachelor's in English
from St. Lawrence University where she met my father
to be a luxury:
Enough to make her think
while wanting to be a stay-at-home mom.
Even as I write that, I wonder:
Did she want to be a stay-at-home mom,
or did she,
like so many other women of her generation and class,
wish for more, but do what was expected?
I can still see Mom at her desk,
tucked into a corner of our narrow galley kitchen,
typing out stories on her manual typewriter,
building up her finger muscles as she built up imaginary lives.
While she cooked dinner and puttered around the kitchen in the late afternoon,
I'd type out short stories, too.
They usually lasted two or three paragraphs,
barely covering a page of type.
Having to buy her own typewriter ribbons and paper,
having a child typing away,
using these resources,
I now realize was an act of love.
Later, after my parents' divorce,
I mourned not seeing my father more,
relating more to him than Mom.
But I still wrote.
After moving out on my own,
I'd show Mom my stories,
my poetry,
hoping for her approval.
We were never as close as Dad and I were.
“Why can't you be more like your sister?”
was a common reframe.
My sister, the good one.
But even that's not fair,
to either of us.
Mom and I spoke less,
until she moved.
Slowly, I started sending her my stories,
my poetry,
hoping for her approval.
Slowly, it came.
“This one's good,” she'd say
after reading my latest offering.
After Dad's death,
mourned by step-mom,
me,
and mom,
Mom and I spoke more.
I sent her more writings,
trying for at least once a week.
Every day,
I'd go for a walk,
then write a poem about what I saw.
These I'd send her
sometime during the week.
“Oh, Robin, I love your writing!” she'd tell me.
I loved the praise,
and kept the writing coming.
It gave me a reason to keep writing
while trying for my first sale.
Mom passed in November,
almost two years ago.
No parent left between my sister and me and eternity.
I mourn not having someone older to “remember when.”
My uncle,
Mom's older (only) brother,
knows that better than I.
And now I write.
For Mom.
In absentia.
I picture her reading over my shoulder.
Hi, Mom.
(August 19, 2016)
Most of us have very imperfect relationships with our parents. Unless our parents were really horrible, but simply people trying to muddle through life, as most of us do, most of us don't really fully appreciate our parents until they're gone. That's part of where this was written from. This from a growing collection, titled Poetry for My Mother
for Mom
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 2016
I used to write for my mother.
It was something that connected us,
first as Mother/daughter,
later as writers,
then as...
well, I'm not sure how to describe our relationship.
Relationships can be confusing, complicated.
As a child, I knew writing was important.
It was something Mom did.
As a 1950s mom,
when women weren't supposed to work
if they were married to a middle-class man
she found her Bachelor's in English
from St. Lawrence University where she met my father
to be a luxury:
Enough to make her think
while wanting to be a stay-at-home mom.
Even as I write that, I wonder:
Did she want to be a stay-at-home mom,
or did she,
like so many other women of her generation and class,
wish for more, but do what was expected?
I can still see Mom at her desk,
tucked into a corner of our narrow galley kitchen,
typing out stories on her manual typewriter,
building up her finger muscles as she built up imaginary lives.
While she cooked dinner and puttered around the kitchen in the late afternoon,
I'd type out short stories, too.
They usually lasted two or three paragraphs,
barely covering a page of type.
Having to buy her own typewriter ribbons and paper,
having a child typing away,
using these resources,
I now realize was an act of love.
Later, after my parents' divorce,
I mourned not seeing my father more,
relating more to him than Mom.
But I still wrote.
After moving out on my own,
I'd show Mom my stories,
my poetry,
hoping for her approval.
We were never as close as Dad and I were.
“Why can't you be more like your sister?”
was a common reframe.
My sister, the good one.
But even that's not fair,
to either of us.
Mom and I spoke less,
until she moved.
Slowly, I started sending her my stories,
my poetry,
hoping for her approval.
Slowly, it came.
“This one's good,” she'd say
after reading my latest offering.
After Dad's death,
mourned by step-mom,
me,
and mom,
Mom and I spoke more.
I sent her more writings,
trying for at least once a week.
Every day,
I'd go for a walk,
then write a poem about what I saw.
These I'd send her
sometime during the week.
“Oh, Robin, I love your writing!” she'd tell me.
I loved the praise,
and kept the writing coming.
It gave me a reason to keep writing
while trying for my first sale.
Mom passed in November,
almost two years ago.
No parent left between my sister and me and eternity.
I mourn not having someone older to “remember when.”
My uncle,
Mom's older (only) brother,
knows that better than I.
And now I write.
For Mom.
In absentia.
I picture her reading over my shoulder.
Hi, Mom.
(August 19, 2016)
Most of us have very imperfect relationships with our parents. Unless our parents were really horrible, but simply people trying to muddle through life, as most of us do, most of us don't really fully appreciate our parents until they're gone. That's part of where this was written from. This from a growing collection, titled Poetry for My Mother
Wednesday, April 12, 2023
MUGLY DAYS
MUGLY DAYS
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 2022
Muggy day,
weighing down the air,
muting colors to an ugly pastel wavy mass,
a Mugly day,
so Mugly it leaves your skin
sandy, sweaty, gritty,
plasters your hair to face,
shirt to back, sides and front.
So muggy,
it’s ugly,
giving way to mugly.
August in Florida is brutal.
From a new collection titled Painted Words, which is still being added to.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 2022
Muggy day,
weighing down the air,
muting colors to an ugly pastel wavy mass,
a Mugly day,
so Mugly it leaves your skin
sandy, sweaty, gritty,
plasters your hair to face,
shirt to back, sides and front.
So muggy,
it’s ugly,
giving way to mugly.
August in Florida is brutal.
From a new collection titled Painted Words, which is still being added to.
Tuesday, April 11, 2023
SURREALITY
SURREALITY
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1995
Driving home from a surreal afternoon,
the lights on the bridge remind me
of strings of pearls,
glistening,
glowing
against the grey velvet sky.
There are few cars ahead of me,
spaced apart,
their taillights like sparking rubies,
following the sensuous curve of the bridge.
Glancing when I can to my right,
the distant headlights on the north bridge
spanning the bay
are like diamonds,
glittering on their moving strands.
The pavement slowly drifts toward the left,
pointing the car into the soft sunset;
the clouds have parted just enough to turn
pale pink
and
peach,
soft as worn flannel,
drifting into the wet grey rose petal clouds.
Almost as quickly as a hummingbird’s wings,
the liquid colors turn,
becoming pale yellow,
pencil-sketched clouds
turning to charcoal.
The rise of the bridge pulls me towards the sky,
then slowly,
gently
lets me drop back to earth.
Maybe Van Gogh saw the world the way it really is,
swirling skies and all.
I wrote this shortly before writing Ybor Afternoon. There's just something almost magical about the lighting at sunset, especially if one is driving on a bridge with lights reflecting off the water underneath.
This is from the book Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is looking for a publishing home.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1995
Driving home from a surreal afternoon,
the lights on the bridge remind me
of strings of pearls,
glistening,
glowing
against the grey velvet sky.
There are few cars ahead of me,
spaced apart,
their taillights like sparking rubies,
following the sensuous curve of the bridge.
Glancing when I can to my right,
the distant headlights on the north bridge
spanning the bay
are like diamonds,
glittering on their moving strands.
The pavement slowly drifts toward the left,
pointing the car into the soft sunset;
the clouds have parted just enough to turn
pale pink
and
peach,
soft as worn flannel,
drifting into the wet grey rose petal clouds.
Almost as quickly as a hummingbird’s wings,
the liquid colors turn,
becoming pale yellow,
pencil-sketched clouds
turning to charcoal.
The rise of the bridge pulls me towards the sky,
then slowly,
gently
lets me drop back to earth.
Maybe Van Gogh saw the world the way it really is,
swirling skies and all.
I wrote this shortly before writing Ybor Afternoon. There's just something almost magical about the lighting at sunset, especially if one is driving on a bridge with lights reflecting off the water underneath.
This is from the book Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is looking for a publishing home.
Monday, April 10, 2023
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
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
Sunday, April 9, 2023
RUNNING
RUNNING
By Robin Shwedo
© Robin Shwedo, 2007
Every morning, I run.
I don’t want to.
I want to.
Ambivalence is part of the run.
I accept that.
But first, priorities.
Start the coffee pot.
Turn on the TV.
Matt, Meredith, Al and Ann talking to me. I miss Katie.
Get the newspaper from the driveway.
Put the neighbor’s paper on his porch.
Go back inside.
What’s Al saying? Snow in Denver?
Perfect excuse for not running.
Except there’s no snow falling in Florida.
I find my running shorts, t-shirt. Put them on.
Socks from the dresser.
Back in the kitchen where I fix a cuppa joe.
Sit down at the table.
Matt’s talking to somebody.
Who? Gotta find out.
Coffee and Today.
Put on my socks. No holes in these ones. Yet.
Put on my shoes. Should have another couple of months with this pair.
Sip some coffee.
Tie one shoe.
Sip more coffee.
Tie other shoe.
Sip even more coffee.
Another weather report. Still snow in Denver.
Still none here.
Al, Al, Al. You sure know how to ruin a cup of coffee.
Grab a bottle of water.
Find my running cap.
Take the front door key.
Open. The. Door.
Lock the door.
Shut the door. With me outside.
Head for the sidewalk, already tired.
Why is it I’m always more alert after my run?
During my second semester at the University of South Florida St. Petersburg, I had two classes with the same professor, one of which was titled "Narration and Description". One of our assignments was to write a short poem dealing with the body in action. This was in early 2007, less than a year since Katie Couric had left The Today Show. My better-half and I were disappointed when Couric left, but life goes on.
I'd been a runner for a while when I wrote this. And while I've slowed down quite a bit, I still love getting out to walk or run in the morning. Or, rather, I love how I feel when I get back from running. Getting out the front door, however, can occasionally be a challenge!
This poem is part of a collection tentatively titled Poetry for a Busy Life.
By Robin Shwedo
© Robin Shwedo, 2007
Every morning, I run.
I don’t want to.
I want to.
Ambivalence is part of the run.
I accept that.
But first, priorities.
Start the coffee pot.
Turn on the TV.
Matt, Meredith, Al and Ann talking to me. I miss Katie.
Get the newspaper from the driveway.
Put the neighbor’s paper on his porch.
Go back inside.
What’s Al saying? Snow in Denver?
Perfect excuse for not running.
Except there’s no snow falling in Florida.
I find my running shorts, t-shirt. Put them on.
Socks from the dresser.
Back in the kitchen where I fix a cuppa joe.
Sit down at the table.
Matt’s talking to somebody.
Who? Gotta find out.
Coffee and Today.
Put on my socks. No holes in these ones. Yet.
Put on my shoes. Should have another couple of months with this pair.
Sip some coffee.
Tie one shoe.
Sip more coffee.
Tie other shoe.
Sip even more coffee.
Another weather report. Still snow in Denver.
Still none here.
Al, Al, Al. You sure know how to ruin a cup of coffee.
Grab a bottle of water.
Find my running cap.
Take the front door key.
Open. The. Door.
Lock the door.
Shut the door. With me outside.
Head for the sidewalk, already tired.
Why is it I’m always more alert after my run?
During my second semester at the University of South Florida St. Petersburg, I had two classes with the same professor, one of which was titled "Narration and Description". One of our assignments was to write a short poem dealing with the body in action. This was in early 2007, less than a year since Katie Couric had left The Today Show. My better-half and I were disappointed when Couric left, but life goes on.
I'd been a runner for a while when I wrote this. And while I've slowed down quite a bit, I still love getting out to walk or run in the morning. Or, rather, I love how I feel when I get back from running. Getting out the front door, however, can occasionally be a challenge!
This poem is part of a collection tentatively titled Poetry for a Busy Life.
Saturday, April 8, 2023
POLITICS
POLITICS
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 2015, 2016
I like my morning coffee light
with a sweet roll on the side.
I'd take my whisky sour
but I never want to hide.
There's way too much duplicity
to let the bullshit slide,
Especially with the trash-talkers
trying to take us for a ride.
The first four lines were written a while back, with the remainder written the following year. It's part of a growing collection titled Painted Words.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 2015, 2016
I like my morning coffee light
with a sweet roll on the side.
I'd take my whisky sour
but I never want to hide.
There's way too much duplicity
to let the bullshit slide,
Especially with the trash-talkers
trying to take us for a ride.
The first four lines were written a while back, with the remainder written the following year. It's part of a growing collection titled Painted Words.
Friday, April 7, 2023
YBOR AFTERNOON
YBOR AFTERNOON
by Robin Shwedo
© Robin Shwedo, 1995
Ybor -
even the name evokes memories.
On a grey, wet and rainy Sunday,
the air so heavy,
you can almost see the water droplets
suspended in air
in a heavy shrouded mist,
I drive there.
My son and his wife, my friends, live there.
He has called;
“We’re ready when you are.”
I’m to pick her up, then meet him “in town.”
The drive is not long
over battleship grey, shimmering water —
on a dreary day,
the only real color being
the head and tail lights,
the bright red car ahead of me,
the electric blue one next to me.
In half an hour, I’m there,
knocking on the door.
The house appears
deserted,
but in actuality
houses three or more in the dim decay.
The door opens slowly,
then wide.
“You’re here!” she exclaims.
She had no way of knowing I was on my way;
besides no lights,
there is no phone.
There is a loud Thump THUMP THUMPING
from a house nearby,
blaring reggae music,
as if the noise could shake some color
into the area,
the rain away.
We talk in hushed and raucous tones,
depending on the swinging mood,
then head out to meet up with him.
Turning the corner to the main drag,
we are bombarded by cascading lights
draped across the street as archways,
waterfalling down light polls.
Even if it were not December,
it still looks like Christmas,
lights and hustling noise
bombarding the senses.
We cruise along,
looking at the brightly lit shops,
the neon signs appearing as colorful islands in the grey cold air.
We find a parking space,
leave the warm car,
and brave the chill
where we wait
among friends
and crazy,
harmless
strangers
for him to show.
The sky darkens,
deepens,
closing softly as a velvet cape.
When finally he arrives,
we are ready for coffee;
the specialty shop,
close by,
a warm, brightly-lit hole-in-the-wall,
has a brick wall inside,
café tables and chairs with candles next to the wall.
It feels comfortable,
as though no strangers can arrive,
only friends.
We debate on coffee flavors
before deciding on hazelnut cinnamon,
with poppy seed bagels and vegetable cream cheese,
which we greedily consume
at a table by a window,
where we watch the parade of window shoppers
wander by.
Finally,
it is time to leave;
I drop them off at home,
feeling scared, depressed,
empty,
at leaving them in a cold,
unlit house.
And yet,
it is their first place,
their leaping-off point.
And so,
I turn the car toward the interstate,
see the line of tail lights heading into the
grey and grainy misty night
and head for home.
Ybor City is a historic section of Tampa, Florida. It was home for many Cubans and Italians, with many cigar factories; for many years, it was also home to artists and the avant garde. Several movies and TV shows were filmed, in part, in Ybor, including Cop and a Half (with Burt Reynolds).
My oldest son lived in Ybor City several times, once while married. It was after a visit with them that I wrote this poem. It is in my book of poetry, titled Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is currently looking for a publishing home.
by Robin Shwedo
© Robin Shwedo, 1995
Ybor -
even the name evokes memories.
On a grey, wet and rainy Sunday,
the air so heavy,
you can almost see the water droplets
suspended in air
in a heavy shrouded mist,
I drive there.
My son and his wife, my friends, live there.
He has called;
“We’re ready when you are.”
I’m to pick her up, then meet him “in town.”
The drive is not long
over battleship grey, shimmering water —
on a dreary day,
the only real color being
the head and tail lights,
the bright red car ahead of me,
the electric blue one next to me.
In half an hour, I’m there,
knocking on the door.
The house appears
deserted,
but in actuality
houses three or more in the dim decay.
The door opens slowly,
then wide.
“You’re here!” she exclaims.
She had no way of knowing I was on my way;
besides no lights,
there is no phone.
There is a loud Thump THUMP THUMPING
from a house nearby,
blaring reggae music,
as if the noise could shake some color
into the area,
the rain away.
We talk in hushed and raucous tones,
depending on the swinging mood,
then head out to meet up with him.
Turning the corner to the main drag,
we are bombarded by cascading lights
draped across the street as archways,
waterfalling down light polls.
Even if it were not December,
it still looks like Christmas,
lights and hustling noise
bombarding the senses.
We cruise along,
looking at the brightly lit shops,
the neon signs appearing as colorful islands in the grey cold air.
We find a parking space,
leave the warm car,
and brave the chill
where we wait
among friends
and crazy,
harmless
strangers
for him to show.
The sky darkens,
deepens,
closing softly as a velvet cape.
When finally he arrives,
we are ready for coffee;
the specialty shop,
close by,
a warm, brightly-lit hole-in-the-wall,
has a brick wall inside,
café tables and chairs with candles next to the wall.
It feels comfortable,
as though no strangers can arrive,
only friends.
We debate on coffee flavors
before deciding on hazelnut cinnamon,
with poppy seed bagels and vegetable cream cheese,
which we greedily consume
at a table by a window,
where we watch the parade of window shoppers
wander by.
Finally,
it is time to leave;
I drop them off at home,
feeling scared, depressed,
empty,
at leaving them in a cold,
unlit house.
And yet,
it is their first place,
their leaping-off point.
And so,
I turn the car toward the interstate,
see the line of tail lights heading into the
grey and grainy misty night
and head for home.
Ybor City is a historic section of Tampa, Florida. It was home for many Cubans and Italians, with many cigar factories; for many years, it was also home to artists and the avant garde. Several movies and TV shows were filmed, in part, in Ybor, including Cop and a Half (with Burt Reynolds).
My oldest son lived in Ybor City several times, once while married. It was after a visit with them that I wrote this poem. It is in my book of poetry, titled Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is currently looking for a publishing home.
Thursday, April 6, 2023
RAINY DAY, FROM A COFFEE SHOP
RAINY DAY, FROM A COFFEE SHOP
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1996
Sitting here,
on a stool,
in a coffee shop,
watching the rain
snaking down the window,
pouring down,
smacking hard the road,
I feel disconnected,
vaguely alone,
while utterly attuned with all of life.
The dream-like state I’m zoned into
is like an old movie
black-and-white
Casablanca, maybe,
or something of that caliber.
Inside the shop is cocoon warm,
fogging the windows
slightly
which,
along with the rain
slithering down the windows,
makes the passing world appear surreal,
in a wavy
watery way.
A woman attempting to cross the street
carries packages
and a large umbrella;
it resembles a large flower:
ochre and gold in the center,
orange petals radiating to keep one dry,
while the bright green handle
is anchored to her hand.
People,
scurrying up and down the sidewalks
and across the streets,
are arranged in layers of brightly colored rain garb
over everyday clothes,
while long black, brown and grey trench coats
protect business suits.
A small child pulls loose from a parental hand
long enough to stomp and kick
splashingly
in a puddle.
Cars inch their way down the avenues and roads,
mains and alleys,
avoiding shallow lakes on road edges,
trying not to
slip
sloshingly
skid and
slide.
The various shades of grey
are like wet velvet
and water colors dripping off the pages,
streaks sliding down the glass,
dark around the edges,
lighter, soft and warm near the centers.
Slowly,
as the rain and cloud darkened afternoon
deepens into twilight,
bright and deep neon lights flicker
on
off
and finally
solidly
on,
their reflections dancing,
shimmering,
waving,
in the puddles,
pools
and wetness,
sensuous reds,
emerald greens,
passionate purples,
royal blues.
Cars haltingly
stop
and
startingly
inch
then
surge
along the roads,
headlights and taillights leaving long reflections
ahead and behind.
I lean towards the window
by the booth I sit at,
blow a puff of air,
fogging a patchy circle,
quickly drawing a flower
before it fades;
then,
leaning back,
I take a long
warm
drink of steamy cappuccino.
It’s amazing how cocooned
you can feel
on a rainy colorful wet day like this.
I drove cab for a few years, and wrote this while waiting for a fare on a cab stand outside a mall on a rainy day. The lights from the shops, the cars both in the parking lot and nearby streets, the people walking to their cars: all added to the mood of the day.
This is part of my collection titled Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1996
Sitting here,
on a stool,
in a coffee shop,
watching the rain
snaking down the window,
pouring down,
smacking hard the road,
I feel disconnected,
vaguely alone,
while utterly attuned with all of life.
The dream-like state I’m zoned into
is like an old movie
black-and-white
Casablanca, maybe,
or something of that caliber.
Inside the shop is cocoon warm,
fogging the windows
slightly
which,
along with the rain
slithering down the windows,
makes the passing world appear surreal,
in a wavy
watery way.
A woman attempting to cross the street
carries packages
and a large umbrella;
it resembles a large flower:
ochre and gold in the center,
orange petals radiating to keep one dry,
while the bright green handle
is anchored to her hand.
People,
scurrying up and down the sidewalks
and across the streets,
are arranged in layers of brightly colored rain garb
over everyday clothes,
while long black, brown and grey trench coats
protect business suits.
A small child pulls loose from a parental hand
long enough to stomp and kick
splashingly
in a puddle.
Cars inch their way down the avenues and roads,
mains and alleys,
avoiding shallow lakes on road edges,
trying not to
slip
sloshingly
skid and
slide.
The various shades of grey
are like wet velvet
and water colors dripping off the pages,
streaks sliding down the glass,
dark around the edges,
lighter, soft and warm near the centers.
Slowly,
as the rain and cloud darkened afternoon
deepens into twilight,
bright and deep neon lights flicker
on
off
and finally
solidly
on,
their reflections dancing,
shimmering,
waving,
in the puddles,
pools
and wetness,
sensuous reds,
emerald greens,
passionate purples,
royal blues.
Cars haltingly
stop
and
startingly
inch
then
surge
along the roads,
headlights and taillights leaving long reflections
ahead and behind.
I lean towards the window
by the booth I sit at,
blow a puff of air,
fogging a patchy circle,
quickly drawing a flower
before it fades;
then,
leaning back,
I take a long
warm
drink of steamy cappuccino.
It’s amazing how cocooned
you can feel
on a rainy colorful wet day like this.
I drove cab for a few years, and wrote this while waiting for a fare on a cab stand outside a mall on a rainy day. The lights from the shops, the cars both in the parking lot and nearby streets, the people walking to their cars: all added to the mood of the day.
This is part of my collection titled Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares.
Wednesday, April 5, 2023
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, April 4, 2023
At A Check-Cashing Place, On A Dreary Day
At A Check-Cashing Place, On A Dreary Day
by Robin Shwedo
©Robin Shwedo, 2014
Grey, dreary day, first week in January,
I stand, waiting for a pay-day loan.
Ten more minutes, and I can get it.
Rules say that one must wait 24 hours from paying off the last one
before getting another loan.
A radio plays in the background, offering adult-alt-soft rock and occasional chatter.
Paul Simon is singing Graceland,
Ladysmith Black Mambazo laying down the background rhythm.
“I'm going to Graceland, Graceland, in Memphis, Tennessee,”* he sings.
An old woman,
crippled up from life,
eases into the place, shuffles up to the teller window.
The man with her – son, perhaps? neighbor? – sits down on the cheap office chair to wait.
“I need to borrow $400,” the old woman states in a flat, raspy whisper,
as though saying it much louder and with any kind of intonation
would give the statement a life of its own,
thus making it more than she can bear.
Several more people wander in,
needing money,
needing more until their next pay day.
Graceland ends and the Eagles follow up.
I turn and lean against the window where the teller,
who is helping the old woman,
will help me in – now – five minutes.
I stare out the bank of windows taking up one wall
and part of another.
It is dreary, dark, and will probably rain sometime this afternoon.
If it were up north – New England, say, or mid-west –
snow would be imminent.
The teller glances at me.
“One more minute,” he says in his thick Brooklyn accent.
His voice stands out in the Florida winter,
telling of snow days and shoveling snow
neither of us no longer need to do.
There was a time when I thought that all of this was gone,
when I would never have to come in here again.
Money was there in what seemed to be abundance.
And the it wasn't.
“Okay, you're up,” Brooklyn tells me
as the old woman shuffles off.
*©1986 Words and Music by Paul Simon
There are places where money is tight and pay-day advance businesses and pawn shops abound. Good? Bad? Depends on who you ask. This poem simply tells of one person getting a loan. It is part of a book titled Working Class Poems which will soon be looking for a publisher.
This was first posted on October 20, 2016.
by Robin Shwedo
©Robin Shwedo, 2014
Grey, dreary day, first week in January,
I stand, waiting for a pay-day loan.
Ten more minutes, and I can get it.
Rules say that one must wait 24 hours from paying off the last one
before getting another loan.
A radio plays in the background, offering adult-alt-soft rock and occasional chatter.
Paul Simon is singing Graceland,
Ladysmith Black Mambazo laying down the background rhythm.
“I'm going to Graceland, Graceland, in Memphis, Tennessee,”* he sings.
An old woman,
crippled up from life,
eases into the place, shuffles up to the teller window.
The man with her – son, perhaps? neighbor? – sits down on the cheap office chair to wait.
“I need to borrow $400,” the old woman states in a flat, raspy whisper,
as though saying it much louder and with any kind of intonation
would give the statement a life of its own,
thus making it more than she can bear.
Several more people wander in,
needing money,
needing more until their next pay day.
Graceland ends and the Eagles follow up.
I turn and lean against the window where the teller,
who is helping the old woman,
will help me in – now – five minutes.
I stare out the bank of windows taking up one wall
and part of another.
It is dreary, dark, and will probably rain sometime this afternoon.
If it were up north – New England, say, or mid-west –
snow would be imminent.
The teller glances at me.
“One more minute,” he says in his thick Brooklyn accent.
His voice stands out in the Florida winter,
telling of snow days and shoveling snow
neither of us no longer need to do.
There was a time when I thought that all of this was gone,
when I would never have to come in here again.
Money was there in what seemed to be abundance.
And the it wasn't.
“Okay, you're up,” Brooklyn tells me
as the old woman shuffles off.
*©1986 Words and Music by Paul Simon
There are places where money is tight and pay-day advance businesses and pawn shops abound. Good? Bad? Depends on who you ask. This poem simply tells of one person getting a loan. It is part of a book titled Working Class Poems which will soon be looking for a publisher.
This was first posted on October 20, 2016.
Monday, April 3, 2023
REBEL
REBEL
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1995
“Sit down and shut up,”
he orders with a snarl.
I have been to hell and back,
seen things -
no, experienced them -
that no living being,
human or otherwise,
should know exists.
There are abuses which,
bad enough when done by unknown,
are a thousand times worse
when done in the name of love.
There are those who bully for what they want,
who fight without conscience against us all,
unless someone is brave enough to
STAND UP
and break the cycle.
Sooner
(or later)
the beaten spirit does one of two things:
either it breaks, withers and dies,
or becomes a strong warrior,
becoming one who will fight back against the wrong.
I have lived too much to go back.
Now, looking for new relationships,
I see through the gauzy,
glittery
starry-eyed good times,
and frequently see to the center,
the rigid unyielding core of a person.
I have to to survive.
And so,
I slide from the stool by the restaurant counter,
stand tall, strong,
and,
looking him straight in his surprised eyes,
state in a loud,
clear,
strong voice,
“I will not sit down.
I will not shut up.”
I know I've posted this poem here several times. But many of us, at one time or another, find ourselves having to stand up for what is right.
This poem is part of my book Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is looking for a publisher.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1995
“Sit down and shut up,”
he orders with a snarl.
I have been to hell and back,
seen things -
no, experienced them -
that no living being,
human or otherwise,
should know exists.
There are abuses which,
bad enough when done by unknown,
are a thousand times worse
when done in the name of love.
There are those who bully for what they want,
who fight without conscience against us all,
unless someone is brave enough to
STAND UP
and break the cycle.
Sooner
(or later)
the beaten spirit does one of two things:
either it breaks, withers and dies,
or becomes a strong warrior,
becoming one who will fight back against the wrong.
I have lived too much to go back.
Now, looking for new relationships,
I see through the gauzy,
glittery
starry-eyed good times,
and frequently see to the center,
the rigid unyielding core of a person.
I have to to survive.
And so,
I slide from the stool by the restaurant counter,
stand tall, strong,
and,
looking him straight in his surprised eyes,
state in a loud,
clear,
strong voice,
“I will not sit down.
I will not shut up.”
I know I've posted this poem here several times. But many of us, at one time or another, find ourselves having to stand up for what is right.
This poem is part of my book Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is looking for a publisher.
Sunday, April 2, 2023
THE WHISPER
THE WHISPER
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1995
I am loud.
I love vibrant colors -
Pillarbox red, midnight blue,
emerald green, splashy yellow,
in-your-face orange,
and sounds so colorful,
they make your heart dance
like a whirling kite in a
high wind,
bobbing,
dipping -
flutes, wind, laughter.
The down side
is loving rainy days,
where the only color
is gray,
with the neon signs
reflecting off the
wet pavement,
and the wind howls
as it drives the downpour,
gusting across the road,
slapping legs and back.
I am loud,
and love extremes,
usually the intense,
boisterous ones.
And when I met the
man I love,
how did he call to me?
He whispered.
This was written during the mid-1990s and is part of my collection titled Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares. The book is currently looking for a publisher.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1995
I am loud.
I love vibrant colors -
Pillarbox red, midnight blue,
emerald green, splashy yellow,
in-your-face orange,
and sounds so colorful,
they make your heart dance
like a whirling kite in a
high wind,
bobbing,
dipping -
flutes, wind, laughter.
The down side
is loving rainy days,
where the only color
is gray,
with the neon signs
reflecting off the
wet pavement,
and the wind howls
as it drives the downpour,
gusting across the road,
slapping legs and back.
I am loud,
and love extremes,
usually the intense,
boisterous ones.
And when I met the
man I love,
how did he call to me?
He whispered.
This was written during the mid-1990s and is part of my collection titled Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares. The book is currently looking for a publisher.
Saturday, April 1, 2023
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, February 24, 2023
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.
Thursday, February 23, 2023
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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