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.
Wednesday, April 2, 2025
Tuesday, April 1, 2025
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.
Monday, March 24, 2025
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.
Thursday, March 20, 2025
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.
Tuesday, March 18, 2025
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.
Wednesday, March 12, 2025
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
Tuesday, March 11, 2025
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
Monday, March 10, 2025
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.
Friday, March 7, 2025
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.
Monday, March 3, 2025
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.
Thursday, February 20, 2025
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.
Tuesday, February 18, 2025
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.
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.
Wednesday, February 12, 2025
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.
Monday, February 10, 2025
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.
Friday, January 31, 2025
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.
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.
Wednesday, January 29, 2025
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, January 27, 2025
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.
Friday, January 24, 2025
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.
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.
Wednesday, January 22, 2025
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.
Monday, January 20, 2025
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.
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