DRIVING HOME ON A RAINY DAY

DRIVING HOME ON A RAINY DAY

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1995



Driving home from a four hour trip,

the gray sky opens up

and delivers the deluge it has been promising

all afternoon.

Wouldn't be so bad

if it hadn't started

shortly before crossing the bridge.

It's not the driving that depresses me

so much as all the gray:

the steel girders,

the pavement,

the choppy gray water beneath even that,

as well as the sky with its varying shades of gray.

Even the profusion of white, gray and beige cars

lend to the somber mood.

The only color around me

is the electric blue car ahead of me,

seeming garishly out of place.

Finally reaching land,

I search out my gray exit

with its darker gray and black trees.

Finding it amidst the rain,

I turn, then,

slowly heading home.



This was written during a time when I had family in another part of Florida. Once a week, I'd take time off for a visit, then head home. One dreary winter afternoon, the skies opened up, letting loose the rains it had been promising most of the day.

This is part of my book titled Poetry Unassigned, which is looking for a publishing home.

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.

DAY’S END

DAY’S END

by Robin Shwedo

©Robin Shwedo, 2000, 2022



At a yellow brick building in Clearwater,

I wait for my final fare.

It’s been a long day,

but could’ve been longer,

had dispatch not cared about

paying overtime.

Thank God for small miracles and favors.



The building is a church.

A flash of thought –

did they use yellow bricks

to simulate the golden bricks

the roads in heaven are made of?

Probably not,

but a nice thought.

One never knows.



The stained glass windows,

in various shades of greenish-yellow,

with a dark green stripe around the edges

and a blue, purple and dark

– I don’t know – dark green?

black?

dark brown or blue? –

cross in the center of each,

are unlit from inside the church.



I know not where the choir practices inside,

only that,

when I come exactly on time,

my fare is waiting on the bench

I’m parked in front of.

She has only three minutes

by my estimation

(and car clock)

before we’re exactly on time;

she’s still not here.

Two minutes now.



The church’s security guard

has already wandered by,

checking out my car

from a discreet distance

before going back to his post inside;

he can see me from his window.

That’s okay;

I’m not leaving until I have my fare –

or she’s five minutes late.



It’s one minute past time

and here she comes.

“Hey,” she says,

sliding into the car.

We exchange pleasantries,

and head for our day’s end.



Started in 1999 or 2000; finished 11/11/2022. Part of Working Class Poems, looking for a publisher.

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.

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.

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.

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.

DAY’S END

DAY’S END

by Robin Shwedo

©Robin Shwedo, 2000, 2022



At a yellow brick building in Clearwater,

I wait for my final fare.

It’s been a long day,

but could’ve been longer,

had dispatch not cared about

paying overtime.

Thank God for small miracles and favors.



The building is a church.

A flash of thought –

did they use yellow bricks

to simulate the golden bricks

the roads in heaven are made of?

Probably not,

but a nice thought.

One never knows.



The stained glass windows,

in various shades of greenish-yellow,

with a dark green stripe around the edges

and a blue, purple and dark

– I don’t know – dark green?

black?

dark brown or blue? –

cross in the center of each,

are unlit from inside the church.



I know not where the choir practices inside,

only that,

when I come exactly on time,

my fare is waiting on the bench

I’m parked in front of.

She has only three minutes

by my estimation

(and car clock)

before we’re exactly on time;

she’s still not here.

Two minutes now.



The church’s security guard

has already wandered by,

checking out my car

from a discreet distance

before going back to his post inside;

he can see me from his window.

That’s okay;

I’m not leaving until I have my fare –

or she’s five minutes late.



It’s one minute past time

and here she comes.

“Hey,” she says,

sliding into the car.

We exchange pleasantries,

and head for our day’s end.



Started in 1999 or 2000; finished 11/11/2022. Part of Working Class Poems.

DAYS LIKE TODAY

DAYS LIKE TODAY

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1995, 2022



Days like today

there are places I’d much rather be.

On rainy days like this,

the perfect day would be something like this:

sleeping late in a large comfortable bed

(preferably,

though not necessarily,

with the man I love)

and,

on waking,

finding the children off at school;

the afternoon spent in the living room of the house I grew up in,

fireplace going,

a large pot of herbal tea on the table before me

and nowhere to go

nowhere to be

but here.

Days like today,

I tend to think back to other rainy days,

days that went like this:

sitting in a coffee shop,

seeing the lights outside

reflected off the

streets and sidewalks,

people scurrying home

or other places,

collars pulled up around their necks,

bright umbrellas

leading the charge,

know I soon

will be joining them,

or driving home from Tampa

across a bridge,

seeing the other two bridges,

one to the right,

one to the left,

with strings of moving lights

reflecting off the bay,

as I head home.

There are worse ways

to spend days like this –

homeless,

scared.

But none better than what I’d imagine.



The first half was written 4/11/1995; it was finished 11/11/2022. It is part of a yet-unnamed poetry collection.

Love in Haiku

Love in Haiku

For Paul



by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 2007



I dream of your touch,

love of my life, gone too soon.

Some day, I’ll join you.



I’ve always loved you;

we both know I always will.

Your love is still here,



keeping me alive.

Our love is what warms me still,

our love never fades.



Though winter brings death,

I feel your warmth on the breeze,

loving me always.



Written well after a loved-one's death. Part of Painted Words, which should be ready for a publisher in the next few months.

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.

RAINY NOVEMBER SUNDAY AFTERNOON

RAINY NOVEMBER SUNDAY AFTERNOON

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 2022



On a rainy November Sunday afternoon,

too dreary to go out,

with nowhere to go,

I start a batch of homemade bread,

three loaves’ worth.

As it rises

in the oven

for the first of two risings,

I sit at the table,

and listen to music.

Temptations’ “The Thing You Do,”

then “I Will Wait for You,” by Mumford and Son.

Almost turn off the music,

but Saffire Uppity Blues Women

convince me to stay, with “Elevator Man.”

Sometimes,

there’s nothing better than

Saffire’s beautiful blues

with homemade bread rising

in the oven,

especially on a rainy November Sunday afternoon.



This is part of a book titled Working Class Poems which will soon be looking for a publisher.

THE PITCH

THE PITCH

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 2023



The summer I was 15,

I obsessed about the Red Sox.

I’d been a Boston fan

for several years,

but ‘69 was different.



I had to have surgery

on my knee;

I’d hurt it playing basketball

in a Catholic high school

A senior and I,

a lowly sophomore,

were the two best players

on the team.

She had a scholarship

to UConn,

the only school nearby

that gave girls athletic scholarships

pre-Title IX.

The surgery ended my

basketball days;

had Title IX been in place,

I would’ve kept at it,

no matter what.

After several days in the hospital,

I was released,

getting home in time

to turn on the radio

to the first Rec Sox game

of the season.

That was the summer

when I wanted to pitch for the Red Sox.

So many kids

had major-league aspirations,

but only boys could follow them.

Every time the Red Sox played,

I listened on my radio

or watched on TV,

wishing I could

someday pitch.



I tried to think of ways

I could play ball.

But nothing I thought of

would have worked.

I envisioned myself

going to try outs,

being allowed to throw,

since no one thought

a girl

could pitch,

then proving I could do it.



That summer,

my brother and I

walked to the nearby

Little League fields,

where he had me,

his big sister,

throw the ball for him.

“You’d make a great pitcher,”

he told me after one pitching session.

He always believed in me.

“You’d be better than Yastrzemski,”

he said.

I didn’t have the heart to tell him

that Yaz didn’t pitch.



We moved to Florida a few years later.

All we had there

was spring training

until the Marlins came along,

but they were in Miami.

When the Rays came to St. Pete,

I became a Rays fan.

You have to root for the home team.



“You like baseball? What teams to you root for?”

“The Rays, the Red Sox, and whoever’s

playing the Yankees.”

Yankees fans’d roll their eyes,

but they got it.



Along the way,

a movie for us “girls” –

“A League of Their Own,”

about women playing ball.

One day, just before I turned 60,

I stood in line at the

customer service booth at Publix,

behind a mom and 10-year-old daughter

getting ready for her soft-ball game.

An older woman – late 80s, turned,

talked to the pair.

“I played years ago,”

she said in a strong voice.

“Ever hear of the All American Girls League?

I was pitcher for the Rockford Peaches.”

She was my instant hero.



Early in the season,

one of the local TV stations

worked something out

with the local team –

a party, of sorts.

One person from each decade of life

would face a pitcher,

get a chance to hit,

round the bases,

if they did.

Me,

in my late 60s,

got picked for my decade.

When my turn came,

I headed for home plate,

and chatted with

the manager,

ump,

pitcher,

and more.

54 years of

wanting to play

with the boys of summer,

making it the kids of summer.

I pick the bat I want to use,

approach the plate.

54 years of dreams,

of Yaz,

of the Conigliaro brothers –

first Tony and

then Billy –

54 years of remembering photos

of Tony after he’d been

beaned by a ptich,

then coming back

later,

but never able to play

as he had,

always shy about

wild pitches –

54 years of remembering

Wade Boggs,

who finished his career

with the Rays,

remembering when he

joined the 3000 club,

running the bases,

arm pumping a cheer,

54 years of hearing about

the curse of the Babe,

of Ted Williams,

of wanting to be able to

have female names

in with the greats,

the Conigliaros,

Big Papi,

Carl Crawford,

Price,

and the All-American Girls League.

I wait,

watching the pitcher,

who’s been instructed

to take it easy.

54 years of

waiting for the wind up,

to hit a home run

worthy of playing the game.

“Ready?”

he calls,

as he was instructed

for the fans.

I nod.

And he pitches.



Home run,

some day for all of us girls.



This is part of a book titled Working Class Poems which will soon be looking for a publisher.

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.

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.

HOP, SKIP AND JUMP

HOP, SKIP AND JUMP

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1985



Running fast and feeling free,

skip and hop, this child of three.

Trampolining on the bed

(hope he doesn't hit his head!).

Full of fun, full of joy,

full of giggles is my boy.

Wind blown hair back in the breeze,

no more blue left on jeans' knees.

I think he'll take a nap today.

(I'm tired out from all his play!)



Is there anyone or anything as full of energy as a three-year-old? It's when they're not full of energy that people start to worry.

This was written when one of my kids was a rambunctious 3-year-old, and is part of Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, which is looking for a publisher.

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.

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.

SEPARATION

SEPARATION

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1983



We're separated,

you and I;

split up,

as it were,

no longer a couple,

not quite a whole person,

either.

More like a half-person,

missing parts

(our hearts),

emotional amputees.

The night we decided,

we spent hours

talking,

hashing,

rolling onto our sides

in bed,

trying to ignore the other,

our innards too knotted to sleep.

Exhaustion reached us

shortly before the alarm clock went off.

The next day, we sorted,

shifted,

through fifteen years

of marriage.

You

got the

plates your mother gave us,

the chairs,

and a large pile of books.

I,

on the other hand,

got

my grandma's china,

the silverware,

and the kids.

We'll survive, somehow,

remain friends.



I just wish we could have stayed more.

Is there anything harder than breaking up with someone we were once very close to, with a shared history? This is part of Love, Feelings, and the Seasons of Life, looking for a permanent home.

NIGHT SONGS

NIGHT SONGS

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1985



Night always comes as a surprise;

after a long day and lingering twilight,

the sun suddenly,

in a matter of seconds,

is eaten by the large fish beyond the

ridge of hills.

(My mother used to come to tuck me in,

playing games to ease a four-year-old's transition to sleep.

Our favorite was with her at the end of the bed,

where she'd hold the blanket, and,

with a sharp flicking hand motion,

snap the blanket into the air,

up,

up,

up,

until gravity would call the blanket down

onto my slight frame.

It usually fell across my face

(I knew it would!);

I'd shriek my delight

and ask for it again.)

Now night falls like that,

blanketing the earth with its stars and crescent-moons,

guiding us into our seas of sleep.



I'd noticed, years ago, how fast those last few minutes before night-fall seem to go. Pay attention, some time. Twilights may take a while, but those last couple of minutes before the sun disappears behind the horizon seem exceptionally fast. This was written during the 1980s and is part of the collection titled Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, which is looking for a publisher.

TRIBUTE

TRIBUTE

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1986



You're gone.

Almost three months,

and still missed as much as

if it were yesterday.

The children play;

I long so much to tell you

how they fare.

My youngest

has quit asking

to see you,

his surrogate grandma.

How quickly a little one forgets,

puts into subconscious,

no longer talking of "Dor-dor."

You used to laugh when he called you that.

Now he's filled with other people,

Chuckie, Ty-ty, and baby Christina.

You'd laugh at what he calls the baby.

I read something yesterday;

it reminded me of you.

I can picture you reading it,

and telling me,

"And then, he always said..."

the way you'd told a story

a hundred times before.

Some stories you'd tell often;

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

or at least, heard it that way.

I'll miss you,

and forever curse the

disease that

took you.



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

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

DRIVING HOME ON A RAINY DAY

DRIVING HOME ON A RAINY DAY

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1995



Driving home from a four hour trip,

the gray sky opens up

and delivers the deluge it has been promising

all afternoon.

Wouldn't be so bad

if it hadn't started

shortly before crossing the bridge.

It's not the driving that depresses me

so much as all the gray:

the steel girders,

the pavement,

the choppy gray water beneath even that,

as well as the sky with its varying shades of gray.

Even the profusion of white, gray and beige cars

lend to the somber mood.

The only color around me

is the electric blue car ahead of me,

seeming garishly out of place.

Finally reaching land,

I search out my gray exit

with its darker gray and black trees.

Finding it amidst the rain,

I turn, then,

slowly heading home.



This was written during a time when I had family in another part of Florida. Once a week, I'd take time off for a visit, then head home. One dreary winter afternoon, the skies opened up, letting loose the rains it had been promising most of the day.

This is part of my book titled Poetry Unassigned, which is looking for a publishing home.

Christmas, 2004

Christmas, 2004

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 2004



'Twas a misty, moisty morning on a misty, moisty day,

Could have been December, certainly not May.

The air was filled with speckled rain, the sky a gauzy grey

on a misty, moisty morning on a misty, moisty day.



On holidays, I usually try to walk through a nearby park on holidays while the main meal is in the oven. On Christmas 2004, I had to shorten this walk, as it was "a misty, moisty morning." From a new collection, just started, titled Painted Words.

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.

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.

PASSION AND A GOOD MAN

PASSION AND A GOOD MAN

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1995



I want Passion and a good man.

Yes, I know that seems

a contradiction in terms,

but that is what I want.

And yet,

when I think of Passion,

I think of colorful men -

in blue jeans and flannel,

who clean up nicely,

dressing up in Armani suits,

or brightly good shirts and suede jackets,

but still colorful in their passion,

men who are the male equivalent of a “wild woman”,

who have no fear of

tender candle-lit dinners on the beach

under the stars,

the waves crashing nearby,

followed by a night of

exhausting

exhilarating passion.

And yet,

these are the same ones

who seem destined to walk in the morning,

heading out the door,

no questions or explanations.

Flip side

are the good men,

the ones with the eager smiles

and have-to-please-you attitudes,

who tell you what giving you an hour-long back rub

would be their pleasure,

and that they wouldn’t try “anything else”,

their boyish smiles

and clean-cut demeanor too good to be true.

A woman knows she can trust him to Do Right,

keeping her safe,

without leaving her in the morning.

But what I really want is Passion and a Good Man.

If I ever find him...



This is part of my book of poetry Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is looking for a publisher.

I wrote this poem while driving cab for a living. One of my male co-workers once asked me and another female driver what women wanted in a man. This was the answer, in a light-hearted way. Of course, there's more, but it was a start.

RAINY NIGHT

RAINY NIGHT

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1995



Rainy night.

I’d planned to stay home,

sealed against the cold drenching.

As luck would have it,

an old friend changed the night

with his call,

steering me into the downpour.

Everyone,

it seems,

needs someone to listen,

a warm flannel shirt hugging the inner workings.

Traveling

to pick him up,

I wonder if he wants so much to go out

as to have someone who cares,

knowing someone will brave the rain.

Everyone,

it seems,

needs a hero,

a warm friendly face.

On the way there,

I tense as the car tries to slide.

The road is slick

and doesn’t give much traction.

Up ahead,

a light turns red,

sending long fingers of light

reflecting toward me.

I slow up,

trying not to skid,

begin to lose, then steadily stop.

Rivers of rain

snake down my windshield

as the wipers swoosh back and forth.

This is a long light,

prone to give new meaning to the term

“light year.”

He’s given that to me, our private joke.

As I wait,

I look around.

Lights reflecting everywhere:

red and green stoplights,

neon reds, yellows, blues and pinks,

apartment and store windows

all bouncing off the pavements,

shimmering,

swimming in the puddles

and wet.

Light change,

I ease forward.

The car slides,

then catches as I ease off.

A block,

then another,

a third,

and then,

on the fourth (and two lights later)

is the brownstone that surrounds him.

The third floor is his;

high enough for a view,

but not too high.

This evening,

we’ll sit in the window,

watch the view,

talk,

and maybe more.

We decide I’ll stay the night;

no sense going home

in the driving rain.

In the morning,

I head home before work.

The dry daylight

is a different world.



Don't we all want someone who'll brave the weather for us? This is from my collection Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares.

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.

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.

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.

DAYS LIKE THIS

DAYS LIKE THIS

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1996



Days like this,

I think straight lines are the most wonderful things.

True,

the scenery is mundane,

the colors somewhat mute,

when compared to wild roller coaster ups and downs,

but the ride is so much safer.

The “down” days, the ride is like this:

you “drag ass”, not able to get up,

not quite having all the gears “mesh”,

but an outer force keeps you going,

moving;

you let it because,

if you stop,

even for a second,

you’ll never move.

Ever.

Again.

Sounds are muted, distorted;

those that are loud enough to come through startle

with their bone-jarring

teeth-gritting noise.

Colors appear darker;

dark green leaves on brown-black trees

emit deep endless shadows

that threaten to drown you,

even as the branches menacingly reach for you.

The huge white clouds appear malicious,

creating looming faces which change to suite your mood.

Night arrives,

threatening to envelope you in its thick alive darkness.

Days on end grow dimmer and greyer,

almost unnerving in their endless progression,

when suddenly,

you feeling yourself

as you come close to drowning

hit bottom,

sink slightly,

then push off against the

bumpy hardness beneath you.

Suddenly - sometimes -

but oh, so surely,

you break through the foggy film into sunshine.

Wonderful sunshine!

There it is!

The sounds! The joyous sounds!

Birds singing, children laughing,

dogs barking, railroad crossings clanging

as the trains roar up the track,

puffing, chugging,

whistles blowing,

wheels turning,

engineers waving at

small children waving back.

Colors!

Yes, everywhere magnificent colors!

Even in the blackest night

and rainiest days,

the neon lights are alive,

dancing,

calling to you,

singing, “Here we are!

And There you are!

Hello!

Hello!”

The smells of roses!

Coffee floating out of open shops,

colorful sounds,

wonderful smells,

laughing sights,

everything’s so “up,

you’ll never come back down.



Yup, there’s something to be said for straight lines.



This was written years ago and is part of Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is looking for a publisher.

DRESS UPS

DRESS UPS

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1985



She's dressing up in fancy clothes -

satins, silks, and ancient lace,

high heeled shoes with skinny legs,

lipstick on a pouty face.

This child-like game of dressing up -

"I'm Mrs. Butterfield," with made-up voice -

will turn to laughs in later years

(in photos shown to friendly boys).

But now, my little girl and I,

("Mrs. Butterfield" and crony—me)

we're sitting down to lemonade.

(We're pretending that it's tea.)



Many kids love playing dress up, trying on old clothes to help aid in pretending. I wrote when my kids were young and still occasionally dressing up. This is part of my poetry book titled Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life which is looking for a publishing home.

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.

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.

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.

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.

REJECTION

REJECTION

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1995



The day I dyed my hair blue,

I was asked “why?” more than once.

Always, I’d answer, “Felt like it.”

Of course, it’s much more complex,

but what it boils down to is this:

Rejection.

Being way different is hard enough,

the biggest fear being that

No One Will Like You.

However,

give someone something they can latch onto:

Dye your hair blue,

wear combat boots with your dress,

and people can immediately give you a reason

you can laugh at.

It’s never you they’re rejecting you for,

it’s the fact that you have blue hair.

At least this way,

you can always pretend

“When the dye wears off,

then they’ll accept me.”

It’s easier to be rejected for deliberate ways

then things you can’t change.



This was written shortly after the second or third time I'd dyed the ends of my hair midnight blue. The first time, my oldest son had brought home some blue hair dye from the Ybor City section of Tampa, Florida, then decided he wasn't going to use the dye.

"You use it, Mom," he told me. "Don't worry, it washes out after a week or two."

At the time, I'd had a guy whose path crossed mine a couple of times a week who was more interested in me than I was in him. Finally, I told him to back off or I'd dye my hair blue.

"You do that, I'll never speak with you again!" he proclaimed. I wished I'd gotten it in writing, because the next day, when he saw me with the blue ends on my hair, he decided, "Somehow, on you, it just works!" Fortunately, I did manage to dissuade him.

Others, though, occasionally found the hair, um, too different. I did finally quit dying the ends of my hair after maybe half-a-dozen dyings...

This poem is part of Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is looking for a publishing home.

DAYS LIKE TODAY

DAYS LIKE TODAY

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1995, 2022



Days like today

there are places I’d much rather be.

On rainy days like this,

the perfect day would be something like this:

sleeping late in a large comfortable bed

(preferably,

though not necessarily,

with the man I love)

and,

on waking,

finding the children off at school;

the afternoon spent in the living room of the house I grew up in,

fireplace going,

a large pot of herbal tea on the table before me

and nowhere to go

nowhere to be

but here.

Days like today,

I tend to think back to other rainy days,

days that went like this:

sitting in a coffee shop,

seeing the lights outside

reflected off the

streets and sidewalks,

people scurrying home

or other places,

collars pulled up around their necks,

bright umbrellas

leading the charge,

know I soon

will be joining them,

or driving home from Tampa

across a bridge,

seeing the other two bridges,

one to the right,

one to the left,

with strings of moving lights

reflecting off the bay,

as I head home.

There are worse ways

to spend days like this –

homeless,

scared.

But none better than what I’d imagine.



The first half was written 4/11/1995; it was finished 11/11/2022. It is part of a yet-unnamed poetry collection.

ELENA, 1985

ELENA, 1985

by Robin Shwedo

© Robin Shwedo, 1985



Labor Day weekend,

the storm danced off shore,

debating whether to hit for a final vacation.



The week before,

she had slowly waltzed up the Gulf,

figuring on landing in Louisiana;

maybe the thought of some good food seemed tempting.

Then,

Friday night,

we all sat up,

glued to the t.v.,

watching as reports came in.

The storm veered east,

coming closer to the coast.

At 2:30 in the morning,

the evacuations began.

I call a nearby police department,

seeing if a friend's family is safe.

At the moment, she's my sister;

they'd ever give out info on a mere friend.

Their neighborhood's evacuated to a school;

all safe.

I finish the night

with the TV on,

playing game

after

game

of cards with my son

to pass the time.

Saturday,

the storm stalls,

churning up the water,

gathering strength.

The TV shows people boarding up;

the interview in the street,

the water cutting off access

into and out of the county.

Sunday,

everyone runs out of everything,

and rushes the grocery stores.

No one has any bread;

it has all sold out hours before.

Instead,

we make due

with English muffins.

We wait in line forty-five minutes;

ten checkouts open,

and still the wait.

People leave the line

for the free coffee

in white styrofoam,

bringing back steaming liquid

for those who've saved their places.

People who have never met

talk like old home week,

laughing over the

most ridiculous things.

Leaving the store,

we discover that

the hurricane has tired of the sun coast,

and, turning,

hurries

on its

original course,

and heads for

good ol' Creole cooking.



In 1985, Hurricane Elena sat off the Florida coast for several days before turning and heading for Louisiana. This is part of my poetry collection titled Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, currently looking for a publishing home.

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.

ARTISTIC TIME

ARTISTIC TIME

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1995



No matter what anyone says,

men have it easier being artists than women -

especially those with outside work.

Men work,

come home,

take up pen and paper,

whatever their talent dictates.

Women,

on the other hand,

work,

come home,

deal with the housework,

the laundry,

the children,

the cleaning up after the pets,

dealing with the whims of their men,

their men’s needs,

(screw their own needs),

fix dinner,

do the dishes,

screw their men,

then,

if we are very lucky,

we may be able to fit in

a couple of minutes of

writing,

painting,

creating

between

cleaning the bathroom

and sleep.

What is amazing

is not that we can create well,

but that we have time to create. Period.



While driving cab, I discovered that several of my male co-workers wrote, painted, in general, created. They mentioned being thankful that their wives took care of "the house stuff", leaving them (the men) with a few hours to create. Hence, this poem. Anyone who has done double-duty - work and housework - while trying to do triple-duty by adding creativity will understand.

This is part of my collection titled Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, currently looking for a publishing home.

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