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.