DRESS UPS
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1985
She's dressing up in fancy clothes -
satins, silks, and ancient lace,
high heeled shoes with skinny legs,
lipstick on a pouty face.
This child-like game of dressing up -
"I'm Mrs. Butterfield," with made-up voice -
will turn to laughs in later years
(in photos shown to friendly boys).
But now, my little girl and I,
("Mrs. Butterfield" and crony—me)
we're sitting down to lemonade.
(We're pretending that it's tea.)
Many kids love playing dress up, trying on old clothes to help aid in pretending. I wrote when my kids were young and still occasionally dressing up. This is part of my poetry book titled Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life which is looking for a publishing home.
Showing posts with label Love Feelings and the Seasons of Life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Love Feelings and the Seasons of Life. Show all posts
Saturday, April 25, 2026
Friday, April 24, 2026
Elena, 1985
ELENA, 1985
by Robin Shwedo
© Robin Shwedo, 1985
Labor Day weekend,
the storm danced off shore,
debating whether to hit for a final vacation.
The week before,
she had slowly waltzed up the Gulf,
figuring on landing in Louisiana;
maybe the thought of some good food seemed tempting.
Then,
Friday night,
we all sat up,
glued to the t.v.,
watching as reports came in.
The storm veered east,
coming closer to the coast.
At 2:30 in the morning,
the evacuations began.
I call a nearby police department,
seeing if a friend's family is safe.
At the moment, she's my sister;
they'd ever give out info on a mere friend.
Their neighborhood's evacuated to a school;
all safe.
I finish the night
with the TV on,
playing game
after
game
of cards with my son
to pass the time.
Saturday,
the storm stalls,
churning up the water,
gathering strength.
The TV shows people boarding up;
the interview in the street,
the water cutting off access
into and out of the county.
Sunday,
everyone runs out of everything,
and rushes the grocery stores.
No one has any bread;
it has all sold out hours before.
Instead,
we make due
with English muffins.
We wait in line forty-five minutes;
ten checkouts open,
and still the wait.
People leave the line
for the free coffee
in white styrofoam,
bringing back steaming liquid
for those who've saved their places.
People who have never met
talk like old home week,
laughing over the
most ridiculous things.
Leaving the store,
we discover that
the hurricane has tired of the sun coast,
and, turning,
hurries
on its
original course,
and heads for
good ol' Creole cooking.
In 1985, Hurricane Elena sat off the Florida coast for several days before turning and heading for Louisiana. This is part of my poetry collection titled Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, currently looking for a publishing home.
by Robin Shwedo
© Robin Shwedo, 1985
Labor Day weekend,
the storm danced off shore,
debating whether to hit for a final vacation.
The week before,
she had slowly waltzed up the Gulf,
figuring on landing in Louisiana;
maybe the thought of some good food seemed tempting.
Then,
Friday night,
we all sat up,
glued to the t.v.,
watching as reports came in.
The storm veered east,
coming closer to the coast.
At 2:30 in the morning,
the evacuations began.
I call a nearby police department,
seeing if a friend's family is safe.
At the moment, she's my sister;
they'd ever give out info on a mere friend.
Their neighborhood's evacuated to a school;
all safe.
I finish the night
with the TV on,
playing game
after
game
of cards with my son
to pass the time.
Saturday,
the storm stalls,
churning up the water,
gathering strength.
The TV shows people boarding up;
the interview in the street,
the water cutting off access
into and out of the county.
Sunday,
everyone runs out of everything,
and rushes the grocery stores.
No one has any bread;
it has all sold out hours before.
Instead,
we make due
with English muffins.
We wait in line forty-five minutes;
ten checkouts open,
and still the wait.
People leave the line
for the free coffee
in white styrofoam,
bringing back steaming liquid
for those who've saved their places.
People who have never met
talk like old home week,
laughing over the
most ridiculous things.
Leaving the store,
we discover that
the hurricane has tired of the sun coast,
and, turning,
hurries
on its
original course,
and heads for
good ol' Creole cooking.
In 1985, Hurricane Elena sat off the Florida coast for several days before turning and heading for Louisiana. This is part of my poetry collection titled Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, currently looking for a publishing home.
Sunday, April 19, 2026
Eleven
ELEVEN
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1985
Jason's at a funny age.
No little boy, but far from grown;
needing hugs, but daring not to admit to it.
Eleven is a rough age;
but then, all ages have their quirky little monsters.
Almost as tall as me,
he's still my baby,
and will be when he's fifty.
Will I know him then, and like who he's become?
Better yet, will he?
But now, at his awkward age,
he shows bravado, maturity one moment,
making me laugh, I'm proud;
the next minute flighty, fighty,
I'm so furious I could
drill for oil with my foot.
He'll outgrow this stage, and be no worse for wear.
His grandma still has battle scars
from my eleventh year
in numbers of gray hairs.
I'd never, ever wish eleven on anyone.
Is there ever an easy age when you're raising children? Maybe not. But thankfully, most of us have more good days than rough.
This comes from my collection titled Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, which is looking for a publishing home.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1985
Jason's at a funny age.
No little boy, but far from grown;
needing hugs, but daring not to admit to it.
Eleven is a rough age;
but then, all ages have their quirky little monsters.
Almost as tall as me,
he's still my baby,
and will be when he's fifty.
Will I know him then, and like who he's become?
Better yet, will he?
But now, at his awkward age,
he shows bravado, maturity one moment,
making me laugh, I'm proud;
the next minute flighty, fighty,
I'm so furious I could
drill for oil with my foot.
He'll outgrow this stage, and be no worse for wear.
His grandma still has battle scars
from my eleventh year
in numbers of gray hairs.
I'd never, ever wish eleven on anyone.
Is there ever an easy age when you're raising children? Maybe not. But thankfully, most of us have more good days than rough.
This comes from my collection titled Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, which is looking for a publishing home.
Thursday, August 14, 2025
TRIBUTE
TRIBUTE
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1986
You're gone.
Almost three months,
and still missed as much as
if it were yesterday.
The children play;
I long so much to tell you
how they fare.
My youngest
has quit asking
to see you,
his surrogate grandma.
How quickly a little one forgets,
puts into subconscious,
no longer talking of "Dor-dor."
You used to laugh when he called you that.
Now he's filled with other people,
Chuckie, Ty-ty, and baby Christina.
You'd laugh at what he calls the baby.
I read something yesterday;
it reminded me of you.
I can picture you reading it,
and telling me,
"And then, he always said..."
the way you'd told a story
a hundred times before.
Some stories you'd tell often;
I'd never let on I'd heard it before,
or at least, heard it that way.
I'll miss you,
and forever curse the
disease that
took you.
I first met Doris while volunteering for a local fire department. She was the main dispatcher, who was a surrogate mom to many of the people passing through. She died of cancer.
This is part of my collection titled Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, currently looking for a publisher.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1986
You're gone.
Almost three months,
and still missed as much as
if it were yesterday.
The children play;
I long so much to tell you
how they fare.
My youngest
has quit asking
to see you,
his surrogate grandma.
How quickly a little one forgets,
puts into subconscious,
no longer talking of "Dor-dor."
You used to laugh when he called you that.
Now he's filled with other people,
Chuckie, Ty-ty, and baby Christina.
You'd laugh at what he calls the baby.
I read something yesterday;
it reminded me of you.
I can picture you reading it,
and telling me,
"And then, he always said..."
the way you'd told a story
a hundred times before.
Some stories you'd tell often;
I'd never let on I'd heard it before,
or at least, heard it that way.
I'll miss you,
and forever curse the
disease that
took you.
I first met Doris while volunteering for a local fire department. She was the main dispatcher, who was a surrogate mom to many of the people passing through. She died of cancer.
This is part of my collection titled Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, currently looking for a publisher.
Tuesday, June 17, 2025
SUMMER NIGHT
SUMMER NIGHT
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1985
Summer.
The heat makes skin sticky;
we are sweet cakes
of sweat and powder
by mid-day.
In bed,
you turn towards me;
your quiet, gritty arm
drapes across me
in sleep.
You moan,
chasing away some night vision.
We walked this evening,
watching the sky turn its kaleidoscope colors.
The lights came on in the windows,
people singing their night songs:
"Go to sleep, my little ones;
Go to sleep, the day is done."
We bought some coffee and chili dogs
from the corner vender,
anxious to close up shop
for the night.
Crickets serenaded us home.
Soon,
fall will arrive,
and with it,
change.
The babe within me sighs,
and stretches.
Soon,
he will share our lives.
I savor our last alone summer.
Written at the end of a hot, humid summer. This is part of my collection Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, currently looking for a publishing home.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1985
Summer.
The heat makes skin sticky;
we are sweet cakes
of sweat and powder
by mid-day.
In bed,
you turn towards me;
your quiet, gritty arm
drapes across me
in sleep.
You moan,
chasing away some night vision.
We walked this evening,
watching the sky turn its kaleidoscope colors.
The lights came on in the windows,
people singing their night songs:
"Go to sleep, my little ones;
Go to sleep, the day is done."
We bought some coffee and chili dogs
from the corner vender,
anxious to close up shop
for the night.
Crickets serenaded us home.
Soon,
fall will arrive,
and with it,
change.
The babe within me sighs,
and stretches.
Soon,
he will share our lives.
I savor our last alone summer.
Written at the end of a hot, humid summer. This is part of my collection Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, currently looking for a publishing home.
Friday, May 16, 2025
ELENA, 1985
ELENA, 1985
by Robin Shwedo
© Robin Shwedo, 1985
Labor Day weekend,
the storm danced off shore,
debating whether to hit for a final vacation.
The week before,
she had slowly waltzed up the Gulf,
figuring on landing in Louisiana;
maybe the thought of some good food seemed tempting.
Then,
Friday night,
we all sat up,
glued to the t.v.,
watching as reports came in.
The storm veered east,
coming closer to the coast.
At 2:30 in the morning,
the evacuations began.
I call a nearby police department,
seeing if a friend's family is safe.
At the moment, she's my sister;
they'd ever give out info on a mere friend.
Their neighborhood's evacuated to a school;
all safe.
I finish the night
with the TV on,
playing game
after
game
of cards with my son
to pass the time.
Saturday,
the storm stalls,
churning up the water,
gathering strength.
The TV shows people boarding up;
the interview in the street,
the water cutting off access
into and out of the county.
Sunday,
everyone runs out of everything,
and rushes the grocery stores.
No one has any bread;
it has all sold out hours before.
Instead,
we make due
with English muffins.
We wait in line forty-five minutes;
ten checkouts open,
and still the wait.
People leave the line
for the free coffee
in white styrofoam,
bringing back steaming liquid
for those who've saved their places.
People who have never met
talk like old home week,
laughing over the
most ridiculous things.
Leaving the store,
we discover that
the hurricane has tired of the sun coast,
and, turning,
hurries
on its
original course,
and heads for
good ol' Creole cooking.
In 1985, Hurricane Elena sat off the Florida coast for several days before turning and heading for Louisiana. This is part of my poetry collection titled Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, currently looking for a publishing home.
by Robin Shwedo
© Robin Shwedo, 1985
Labor Day weekend,
the storm danced off shore,
debating whether to hit for a final vacation.
The week before,
she had slowly waltzed up the Gulf,
figuring on landing in Louisiana;
maybe the thought of some good food seemed tempting.
Then,
Friday night,
we all sat up,
glued to the t.v.,
watching as reports came in.
The storm veered east,
coming closer to the coast.
At 2:30 in the morning,
the evacuations began.
I call a nearby police department,
seeing if a friend's family is safe.
At the moment, she's my sister;
they'd ever give out info on a mere friend.
Their neighborhood's evacuated to a school;
all safe.
I finish the night
with the TV on,
playing game
after
game
of cards with my son
to pass the time.
Saturday,
the storm stalls,
churning up the water,
gathering strength.
The TV shows people boarding up;
the interview in the street,
the water cutting off access
into and out of the county.
Sunday,
everyone runs out of everything,
and rushes the grocery stores.
No one has any bread;
it has all sold out hours before.
Instead,
we make due
with English muffins.
We wait in line forty-five minutes;
ten checkouts open,
and still the wait.
People leave the line
for the free coffee
in white styrofoam,
bringing back steaming liquid
for those who've saved their places.
People who have never met
talk like old home week,
laughing over the
most ridiculous things.
Leaving the store,
we discover that
the hurricane has tired of the sun coast,
and, turning,
hurries
on its
original course,
and heads for
good ol' Creole cooking.
In 1985, Hurricane Elena sat off the Florida coast for several days before turning and heading for Louisiana. This is part of my poetry collection titled Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, currently looking for a publishing home.
Sunday, April 27, 2025
DRESS UPS
DRESS UPS
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1985
She's dressing up in fancy clothes -
satins, silks, and ancient lace,
high heeled shoes with skinny legs,
lipstick on a pouty face.
This child-like game of dressing up -
"I'm Mrs. Butterfield," with made-up voice -
will turn to laughs in later years
(in photos shown to friendly boys).
But now, my little girl and I,
("Mrs. Butterfield" and crony—me)
we're sitting down to lemonade.
(We're pretending that it's tea.)
Many kids love playing dress up, trying on old clothes to help aid in pretending. I wrote when my kids were young and still occasionally dressing up. This is part of my poetry book titled Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life which is looking for a publishing home.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1985
She's dressing up in fancy clothes -
satins, silks, and ancient lace,
high heeled shoes with skinny legs,
lipstick on a pouty face.
This child-like game of dressing up -
"I'm Mrs. Butterfield," with made-up voice -
will turn to laughs in later years
(in photos shown to friendly boys).
But now, my little girl and I,
("Mrs. Butterfield" and crony—me)
we're sitting down to lemonade.
(We're pretending that it's tea.)
Many kids love playing dress up, trying on old clothes to help aid in pretending. I wrote when my kids were young and still occasionally dressing up. This is part of my poetry book titled Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life which is looking for a publishing home.
Thursday, April 17, 2025
WORDS UNSPOKEN
WORDS UNSPOKEN
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1986
Grandma spoke a lot.
"Marie is doing better today."
"Oh?" I ask into the long-distance line,
static crackling and snapping,
"Was she ill?"
"Just a cold."
Grandma spent the springs with us.
By then, the snow was old.
"I need a change."
Which meant, "I'd love to see you."
She'd buy the kids clothes,
giving them out,
watching the smiles.
"Look, Mom, Granny gave us jelly shoes!
Baseball mitts!" Whatever the
occasion said.
"It's only money," she'd reply,
eyes sparkling.
The look said love.
As relations drifted,
shifted,
changed,
she alone said,
"If you love him, stay.
But if you love him better apart,
go.
It's up to you. Alone."
Meaning, "I'll love you either way."
The last spring,
the last week,
she said,
"You'll love being alone again.
You'll love having your own space;
to see me go."
This after a tense afternoon,
us dancing back and forth,
stomach in knots.
"You'll be glad to be home,"
I replied.
"Trips are nice; so's home."
She smiled;
I did, too.
Air cleared,
we came to a loving,
uneasy,
funny tender
truce.
December,
she began talking trips.
"March'll be here soon," she stated,
the line dancing with distance.
"So will you," I replied.
"How's Marie?"
"Better today."
"See you soon."
"Definitely. In March."
"March."
The phone clicked off and,
for a moment,
I listened to the
thin, faraway sound
on the line.
March came,
along with the mail.
"Your Grandmother wanted you to have this,"
said the note inside the box.
Her wedding ring -
initials inside, a date.
"She always spoke of you with love."
Marie had signed the note.
Written shortly after my grandmother's death in 1986. This is part of Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, which is looking for a publishing home.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1986
Grandma spoke a lot.
"Marie is doing better today."
"Oh?" I ask into the long-distance line,
static crackling and snapping,
"Was she ill?"
"Just a cold."
Grandma spent the springs with us.
By then, the snow was old.
"I need a change."
Which meant, "I'd love to see you."
She'd buy the kids clothes,
giving them out,
watching the smiles.
"Look, Mom, Granny gave us jelly shoes!
Baseball mitts!" Whatever the
occasion said.
"It's only money," she'd reply,
eyes sparkling.
The look said love.
As relations drifted,
shifted,
changed,
she alone said,
"If you love him, stay.
But if you love him better apart,
go.
It's up to you. Alone."
Meaning, "I'll love you either way."
The last spring,
the last week,
she said,
"You'll love being alone again.
You'll love having your own space;
to see me go."
This after a tense afternoon,
us dancing back and forth,
stomach in knots.
"You'll be glad to be home,"
I replied.
"Trips are nice; so's home."
She smiled;
I did, too.
Air cleared,
we came to a loving,
uneasy,
funny tender
truce.
December,
she began talking trips.
"March'll be here soon," she stated,
the line dancing with distance.
"So will you," I replied.
"How's Marie?"
"Better today."
"See you soon."
"Definitely. In March."
"March."
The phone clicked off and,
for a moment,
I listened to the
thin, faraway sound
on the line.
March came,
along with the mail.
"Your Grandmother wanted you to have this,"
said the note inside the box.
Her wedding ring -
initials inside, a date.
"She always spoke of you with love."
Marie had signed the note.
Written shortly after my grandmother's death in 1986. This is part of Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, which is looking for a publishing home.
Monday, April 29, 2024
HOP, SKIP AND JUMP
HOP, SKIP AND JUMP
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1985
Running fast and feeling free,
skip and hop, this child of three.
Trampolining on the bed
(hope he doesn't hit his head!).
Full of fun, full of joy,
full of giggles is my boy.
Wind blown hair back in the breeze,
no more blue left on jeans' knees.
I think he'll take a nap today.
(I'm tired out from all his play!)
Is there anyone or anything as full of energy as a three-year-old? It's when they're not full of energy that people start to worry.
This was written when one of my kids was a rambunctious 3-year-old, and is part of Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, which is looking for a publisher.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1985
Running fast and feeling free,
skip and hop, this child of three.
Trampolining on the bed
(hope he doesn't hit his head!).
Full of fun, full of joy,
full of giggles is my boy.
Wind blown hair back in the breeze,
no more blue left on jeans' knees.
I think he'll take a nap today.
(I'm tired out from all his play!)
Is there anyone or anything as full of energy as a three-year-old? It's when they're not full of energy that people start to worry.
This was written when one of my kids was a rambunctious 3-year-old, and is part of Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, which is looking for a publisher.
Friday, April 26, 2024
SEPARATION
SEPARATION
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1983
We're separated,
you and I;
split up,
as it were,
no longer a couple,
not quite a whole person,
either.
More like a half-person,
missing parts
(our hearts),
emotional amputees.
The night we decided,
we spent hours
talking,
hashing,
rolling onto our sides
in bed,
trying to ignore the other,
our innards too knotted to sleep.
Exhaustion reached us
shortly before the alarm clock went off.
The next day, we sorted,
shifted,
through fifteen years
of marriage.
You
got the
plates your mother gave us,
the chairs,
and a large pile of books.
I,
on the other hand,
got
my grandma's china,
the silverware,
and the kids.
We'll survive, somehow,
remain friends.
I just wish we could have stayed more.
Is there anything harder than breaking up with someone we were once very close to, with a shared history? This is part of Love, Feelings, and the Seasons of Life, looking for a permanent home.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1983
We're separated,
you and I;
split up,
as it were,
no longer a couple,
not quite a whole person,
either.
More like a half-person,
missing parts
(our hearts),
emotional amputees.
The night we decided,
we spent hours
talking,
hashing,
rolling onto our sides
in bed,
trying to ignore the other,
our innards too knotted to sleep.
Exhaustion reached us
shortly before the alarm clock went off.
The next day, we sorted,
shifted,
through fifteen years
of marriage.
You
got the
plates your mother gave us,
the chairs,
and a large pile of books.
I,
on the other hand,
got
my grandma's china,
the silverware,
and the kids.
We'll survive, somehow,
remain friends.
I just wish we could have stayed more.
Is there anything harder than breaking up with someone we were once very close to, with a shared history? This is part of Love, Feelings, and the Seasons of Life, looking for a permanent home.
Thursday, April 25, 2024
NIGHT SONGS
NIGHT SONGS
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1985
Night always comes as a surprise;
after a long day and lingering twilight,
the sun suddenly,
in a matter of seconds,
is eaten by the large fish beyond the
ridge of hills.
(My mother used to come to tuck me in,
playing games to ease a four-year-old's transition to sleep.
Our favorite was with her at the end of the bed,
where she'd hold the blanket, and,
with a sharp flicking hand motion,
snap the blanket into the air,
up,
up,
up,
until gravity would call the blanket down
onto my slight frame.
It usually fell across my face
(I knew it would!);
I'd shriek my delight
and ask for it again.)
Now night falls like that,
blanketing the earth with its stars and crescent-moons,
guiding us into our seas of sleep.
I'd noticed, years ago, how fast those last few minutes before night-fall seem to go. Pay attention, some time. Twilights may take a while, but those last couple of minutes before the sun disappears behind the horizon seem exceptionally fast. This was written during the 1980s and is part of the collection titled Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, which is looking for a publisher.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1985
Night always comes as a surprise;
after a long day and lingering twilight,
the sun suddenly,
in a matter of seconds,
is eaten by the large fish beyond the
ridge of hills.
(My mother used to come to tuck me in,
playing games to ease a four-year-old's transition to sleep.
Our favorite was with her at the end of the bed,
where she'd hold the blanket, and,
with a sharp flicking hand motion,
snap the blanket into the air,
up,
up,
up,
until gravity would call the blanket down
onto my slight frame.
It usually fell across my face
(I knew it would!);
I'd shriek my delight
and ask for it again.)
Now night falls like that,
blanketing the earth with its stars and crescent-moons,
guiding us into our seas of sleep.
I'd noticed, years ago, how fast those last few minutes before night-fall seem to go. Pay attention, some time. Twilights may take a while, but those last couple of minutes before the sun disappears behind the horizon seem exceptionally fast. This was written during the 1980s and is part of the collection titled Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, which is looking for a publisher.
Wednesday, April 24, 2024
TRIBUTE
TRIBUTE
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1986
You're gone.
Almost three months,
and still missed as much as
if it were yesterday.
The children play;
I long so much to tell you
how they fare.
My youngest
has quit asking
to see you,
his surrogate grandma.
How quickly a little one forgets,
puts into subconscious,
no longer talking of "Dor-dor."
You used to laugh when he called you that.
Now he's filled with other people,
Chuckie, Ty-ty, and baby Christina.
You'd laugh at what he calls the baby.
I read something yesterday;
it reminded me of you.
I can picture you reading it,
and telling me,
"And then, he always said..."
the way you'd told a story
a hundred times before.
Some stories you'd tell often;
I'd never let on I'd heard it before,
or at least, heard it that way.
I'll miss you,
and forever curse the
disease that
took you.
I first met Doris while volunteering for a local fire department. She was the main dispatcher, who was a surrogate mom to many of the people passing through. She died of cancer.
This is part of my collection titled Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, currently looking for a publisher.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1986
You're gone.
Almost three months,
and still missed as much as
if it were yesterday.
The children play;
I long so much to tell you
how they fare.
My youngest
has quit asking
to see you,
his surrogate grandma.
How quickly a little one forgets,
puts into subconscious,
no longer talking of "Dor-dor."
You used to laugh when he called you that.
Now he's filled with other people,
Chuckie, Ty-ty, and baby Christina.
You'd laugh at what he calls the baby.
I read something yesterday;
it reminded me of you.
I can picture you reading it,
and telling me,
"And then, he always said..."
the way you'd told a story
a hundred times before.
Some stories you'd tell often;
I'd never let on I'd heard it before,
or at least, heard it that way.
I'll miss you,
and forever curse the
disease that
took you.
I first met Doris while volunteering for a local fire department. She was the main dispatcher, who was a surrogate mom to many of the people passing through. She died of cancer.
This is part of my collection titled Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, currently looking for a publisher.
Saturday, April 13, 2024
DRESS UPS
DRESS UPS
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1985
She's dressing up in fancy clothes -
satins, silks, and ancient lace,
high heeled shoes with skinny legs,
lipstick on a pouty face.
This child-like game of dressing up -
"I'm Mrs. Butterfield," with made-up voice -
will turn to laughs in later years
(in photos shown to friendly boys).
But now, my little girl and I,
("Mrs. Butterfield" and crony—me)
we're sitting down to lemonade.
(We're pretending that it's tea.)
Many kids love playing dress up, trying on old clothes to help aid in pretending. I wrote when my kids were young and still occasionally dressing up. This is part of my poetry book titled Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life which is looking for a publishing home.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1985
She's dressing up in fancy clothes -
satins, silks, and ancient lace,
high heeled shoes with skinny legs,
lipstick on a pouty face.
This child-like game of dressing up -
"I'm Mrs. Butterfield," with made-up voice -
will turn to laughs in later years
(in photos shown to friendly boys).
But now, my little girl and I,
("Mrs. Butterfield" and crony—me)
we're sitting down to lemonade.
(We're pretending that it's tea.)
Many kids love playing dress up, trying on old clothes to help aid in pretending. I wrote when my kids were young and still occasionally dressing up. This is part of my poetry book titled Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life which is looking for a publishing home.
Saturday, April 6, 2024
ELENA, 1985
ELENA, 1985
by Robin Shwedo
© Robin Shwedo, 1985
Labor Day weekend,
the storm danced off shore,
debating whether to hit for a final vacation.
The week before,
she had slowly waltzed up the Gulf,
figuring on landing in Louisiana;
maybe the thought of some good food seemed tempting.
Then,
Friday night,
we all sat up,
glued to the t.v.,
watching as reports came in.
The storm veered east,
coming closer to the coast.
At 2:30 in the morning,
the evacuations began.
I call a nearby police department,
seeing if a friend's family is safe.
At the moment, she's my sister;
they'd ever give out info on a mere friend.
Their neighborhood's evacuated to a school;
all safe.
I finish the night
with the TV on,
playing game
after
game
of cards with my son
to pass the time.
Saturday,
the storm stalls,
churning up the water,
gathering strength.
The TV shows people boarding up;
the interview in the street,
the water cutting off access
into and out of the county.
Sunday,
everyone runs out of everything,
and rushes the grocery stores.
No one has any bread;
it has all sold out hours before.
Instead,
we make due
with English muffins.
We wait in line forty-five minutes;
ten checkouts open,
and still the wait.
People leave the line
for the free coffee
in white styrofoam,
bringing back steaming liquid
for those who've saved their places.
People who have never met
talk like old home week,
laughing over the
most ridiculous things.
Leaving the store,
we discover that
the hurricane has tired of the sun coast,
and, turning,
hurries
on its
original course,
and heads for
good ol' Creole cooking.
In 1985, Hurricane Elena sat off the Florida coast for several days before turning and heading for Louisiana. This is part of my poetry collection titled Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, currently looking for a publishing home.
by Robin Shwedo
© Robin Shwedo, 1985
Labor Day weekend,
the storm danced off shore,
debating whether to hit for a final vacation.
The week before,
she had slowly waltzed up the Gulf,
figuring on landing in Louisiana;
maybe the thought of some good food seemed tempting.
Then,
Friday night,
we all sat up,
glued to the t.v.,
watching as reports came in.
The storm veered east,
coming closer to the coast.
At 2:30 in the morning,
the evacuations began.
I call a nearby police department,
seeing if a friend's family is safe.
At the moment, she's my sister;
they'd ever give out info on a mere friend.
Their neighborhood's evacuated to a school;
all safe.
I finish the night
with the TV on,
playing game
after
game
of cards with my son
to pass the time.
Saturday,
the storm stalls,
churning up the water,
gathering strength.
The TV shows people boarding up;
the interview in the street,
the water cutting off access
into and out of the county.
Sunday,
everyone runs out of everything,
and rushes the grocery stores.
No one has any bread;
it has all sold out hours before.
Instead,
we make due
with English muffins.
We wait in line forty-five minutes;
ten checkouts open,
and still the wait.
People leave the line
for the free coffee
in white styrofoam,
bringing back steaming liquid
for those who've saved their places.
People who have never met
talk like old home week,
laughing over the
most ridiculous things.
Leaving the store,
we discover that
the hurricane has tired of the sun coast,
and, turning,
hurries
on its
original course,
and heads for
good ol' Creole cooking.
In 1985, Hurricane Elena sat off the Florida coast for several days before turning and heading for Louisiana. This is part of my poetry collection titled Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, currently looking for a publishing home.
Friday, March 8, 2024
FALL AFTERNOON
FALL AFTERNOON
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1985
Fall afternoon.
The season's change snuck up on us
during the night,
catching us only
partially
unawares.
"Temperatures should dip tonight,"
the weatherman said
at eleven
last night.
Summer's heat is gone.
We knew it couldn't last;
the sweltering air was getting old,
anyway.
Soon,
we'll be eating stew
and lots of spaghetti,
putting away the
outdoor grill
for another year.
We go for a walk after dinner,
savoring the tart-apple-crunch feel of the air,
making our faces pink
as we smell
the acrid smoke rising from the neighbor's chimney.
Soon,
the leaves will
go into their magic show,
turning red,
orange,
yellow,
before
falling,
brown,
dead,
to be
raked into piles.
We'll put large potatoes
and corn,
wrapped in foil,
near the bottom of the piles,
and then add a little of our own colors
(red,
orange,
yellow),
dancing into the afternoon air,
warming us (in our sweaters)
as it burns the leaves
and makes the potatoes and corn
into something
almost too good to enjoy.
Except we enjoy it,
wolfing down the food.
(Even the children eat the skins -
the icky skins
they usually leave.)
Ah, the fall,
the smells of the smoke,
the foods,
the leaves rotting after the rains,
the settling of the earth,
the settling in of everything;
the sounds of crunching leaves,
the laughs of trick-or-treat,
the settling house;
the feel of the cooling air,
the rough wool sweaters
and cotton flannel shirts.
The sun
finally
sets
(early)
amid the colors,
and we are ready to relax
inside,
preparing for the days ahead.
This was written to evoke memories of a northeastern (U.S.) autumn. This poem is from my collection Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, currently looking for a publishing home.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1985
Fall afternoon.
The season's change snuck up on us
during the night,
catching us only
partially
unawares.
"Temperatures should dip tonight,"
the weatherman said
at eleven
last night.
Summer's heat is gone.
We knew it couldn't last;
the sweltering air was getting old,
anyway.
Soon,
we'll be eating stew
and lots of spaghetti,
putting away the
outdoor grill
for another year.
We go for a walk after dinner,
savoring the tart-apple-crunch feel of the air,
making our faces pink
as we smell
the acrid smoke rising from the neighbor's chimney.
Soon,
the leaves will
go into their magic show,
turning red,
orange,
yellow,
before
falling,
brown,
dead,
to be
raked into piles.
We'll put large potatoes
and corn,
wrapped in foil,
near the bottom of the piles,
and then add a little of our own colors
(red,
orange,
yellow),
dancing into the afternoon air,
warming us (in our sweaters)
as it burns the leaves
and makes the potatoes and corn
into something
almost too good to enjoy.
Except we enjoy it,
wolfing down the food.
(Even the children eat the skins -
the icky skins
they usually leave.)
Ah, the fall,
the smells of the smoke,
the foods,
the leaves rotting after the rains,
the settling of the earth,
the settling in of everything;
the sounds of crunching leaves,
the laughs of trick-or-treat,
the settling house;
the feel of the cooling air,
the rough wool sweaters
and cotton flannel shirts.
The sun
finally
sets
(early)
amid the colors,
and we are ready to relax
inside,
preparing for the days ahead.
This was written to evoke memories of a northeastern (U.S.) autumn. This poem is from my collection Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, currently looking for a publishing home.
Thursday, April 27, 2023
SUMMER DAY
SUMMER DAY
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1985
Walkin',
talkin',
fast paced boppin'.
Runnin',
funnin',
lyin' 'round sunnin'.
Hoppin',
boppin',
sandals cloppin'.
Skippin',
trippin',
ice cream drippin'.
Summer
songs
all day long.
This describes the easiness of summer, especially when seen through a child's eyes.
This is from my collection titled Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, currently looking for a publishing home.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1985
Walkin',
talkin',
fast paced boppin'.
Runnin',
funnin',
lyin' 'round sunnin'.
Hoppin',
boppin',
sandals cloppin'.
Skippin',
trippin',
ice cream drippin'.
Summer
songs
all day long.
This describes the easiness of summer, especially when seen through a child's eyes.
This is from my collection titled Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, currently looking for a publishing home.
Wednesday, April 26, 2023
WORDS UNSPOKEN
WORDS UNSPOKEN
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1986
Grandma spoke a lot.
"Marie is doing better today."
"Oh?" I ask into the long-distance line,
static crackling and snapping,
"Was she ill?"
"Just a cold."
Grandma spent the springs with us.
By then, the snow was old.
"I need a change."
Which meant, "I'd love to see you."
She'd buy the kids clothes,
giving them out,
watching the smiles.
"Look, Mom, Granny gave us jelly shoes!
Baseball mitts!" Whatever the
occasion said.
"It's only money," she'd reply,
eyes sparkling.
The look said love.
As relations drifted,
shifted,
changed,
she alone said,
"If you love him, stay.
But if you love him better apart,
go.
It's up to you. Alone."
Meaning, "I'll love you either way."
The last spring,
the last week,
she said,
"You'll love being alone again.
You'll love having your own space;
to see me go."
This after a tense afternoon,
us dancing back and forth,
stomach in knots.
"You'll be glad to be home,"
I replied.
"Trips are nice; so's home."
She smiled;
I did, too.
Air cleared,
we came to a loving,
uneasy,
funny tender
truce.
December,
she began talking trips.
"March'll be here soon," she stated,
the line dancing with distance.
"So will you," I replied.
"How's Marie?"
"Better today."
"See you soon."
"Definitely. In March."
"March."
The phone clicked off and,
for a moment,
I listened to the
thin, faraway sound
on the line.
March came,
along with the mail.
"Your Grandmother wanted you to have this,"
said the note inside the box.
Her wedding ring -
initials inside, a date.
"She always spoke of you with love."
Marie had signed the note.
Written shortly after my grandmother's death in 1986. This is part of Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, which is looking for a publishing home.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1986
Grandma spoke a lot.
"Marie is doing better today."
"Oh?" I ask into the long-distance line,
static crackling and snapping,
"Was she ill?"
"Just a cold."
Grandma spent the springs with us.
By then, the snow was old.
"I need a change."
Which meant, "I'd love to see you."
She'd buy the kids clothes,
giving them out,
watching the smiles.
"Look, Mom, Granny gave us jelly shoes!
Baseball mitts!" Whatever the
occasion said.
"It's only money," she'd reply,
eyes sparkling.
The look said love.
As relations drifted,
shifted,
changed,
she alone said,
"If you love him, stay.
But if you love him better apart,
go.
It's up to you. Alone."
Meaning, "I'll love you either way."
The last spring,
the last week,
she said,
"You'll love being alone again.
You'll love having your own space;
to see me go."
This after a tense afternoon,
us dancing back and forth,
stomach in knots.
"You'll be glad to be home,"
I replied.
"Trips are nice; so's home."
She smiled;
I did, too.
Air cleared,
we came to a loving,
uneasy,
funny tender
truce.
December,
she began talking trips.
"March'll be here soon," she stated,
the line dancing with distance.
"So will you," I replied.
"How's Marie?"
"Better today."
"See you soon."
"Definitely. In March."
"March."
The phone clicked off and,
for a moment,
I listened to the
thin, faraway sound
on the line.
March came,
along with the mail.
"Your Grandmother wanted you to have this,"
said the note inside the box.
Her wedding ring -
initials inside, a date.
"She always spoke of you with love."
Marie had signed the note.
Written shortly after my grandmother's death in 1986. This is part of Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, which is looking for a publishing home.
Monday, April 24, 2023
FALL AFTERNOON
FALL AFTERNOON
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1985
Fall afternoon.
The season's change snuck up on us
during the night,
catching us only
partially
unawares.
"Temperatures should dip tonight,"
the weatherman said
at eleven
last night.
Summer's heat is gone.
We knew it couldn't last;
the sweltering air was getting old,
anyway.
Soon,
we'll be eating stew
and lots of spaghetti,
putting away the
outdoor grill
for another year.
We go for a walk after dinner,
savoring the tart-apple-crunch feel of the air,
making our faces pink
as we smell
the acrid smoke rising from the neighbor's chimney.
Soon,
the leaves will
go into their magic show,
turning red,
orange,
yellow,
before
falling,
brown,
dead,
to be
raked into piles.
We'll put large potatoes
and corn,
wrapped in foil,
near the bottom of the piles,
and then add a little of our own colors
(red,
orange,
yellow),
dancing into the afternoon air,
warming us (in our sweaters)
as it burns the leaves
and makes the potatoes and corn
into something
almost too good to enjoy.
Except we enjoy it,
wolfing down the food.
(Even the children eat the skins -
the icky skins
they usually leave.)
Ah, the fall,
the smells of the smoke,
the foods,
the leaves rotting after the rains,
the settling of the earth,
the settling in of everything;
the sounds of crunching leaves,
the laughs of trick-or-treat,
the settling house;
the feel of the cooling air,
the rough wool sweaters
and cotton flannel shirts.
The sun
finally
sets
(early)
amid the colors,
and we are ready to relax
inside,
preparing for the days ahead.
This was written to evoke memories of a northeastern (U.S.) autumn. This poem is from my collection Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, currently looking for a publishing home.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1985
Fall afternoon.
The season's change snuck up on us
during the night,
catching us only
partially
unawares.
"Temperatures should dip tonight,"
the weatherman said
at eleven
last night.
Summer's heat is gone.
We knew it couldn't last;
the sweltering air was getting old,
anyway.
Soon,
we'll be eating stew
and lots of spaghetti,
putting away the
outdoor grill
for another year.
We go for a walk after dinner,
savoring the tart-apple-crunch feel of the air,
making our faces pink
as we smell
the acrid smoke rising from the neighbor's chimney.
Soon,
the leaves will
go into their magic show,
turning red,
orange,
yellow,
before
falling,
brown,
dead,
to be
raked into piles.
We'll put large potatoes
and corn,
wrapped in foil,
near the bottom of the piles,
and then add a little of our own colors
(red,
orange,
yellow),
dancing into the afternoon air,
warming us (in our sweaters)
as it burns the leaves
and makes the potatoes and corn
into something
almost too good to enjoy.
Except we enjoy it,
wolfing down the food.
(Even the children eat the skins -
the icky skins
they usually leave.)
Ah, the fall,
the smells of the smoke,
the foods,
the leaves rotting after the rains,
the settling of the earth,
the settling in of everything;
the sounds of crunching leaves,
the laughs of trick-or-treat,
the settling house;
the feel of the cooling air,
the rough wool sweaters
and cotton flannel shirts.
The sun
finally
sets
(early)
amid the colors,
and we are ready to relax
inside,
preparing for the days ahead.
This was written to evoke memories of a northeastern (U.S.) autumn. This poem is from my collection Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, currently looking for a publishing home.
Tuesday, April 18, 2023
WINTER
WINTER
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1986
Winter has unofficially arrived.
The calendar says it won't be here for yet a month.
Still,
here outside my window,
is the first
unsullied
virgin snow.
Here and there,
little specks of mica and sparkles glisten
on the cold, white velvet.
A flash of color on the edge of the woods;
the resident cardinal, who lives in the tree near the kitchen window,
swoops out and lights onto the lowest branch of his tree.
I must remember to buy him some suet and seeds today.
Later, I trek outside,
watching my smoky breath rise in the clear air.
I take a deep breath, purging my lungs.
Somewhere in the distance, a dog barks;
his voice carries and echoes slightly.
A brown, withered leaf clings to a nearby tree,
as though, afraid of the last long plunge to earth,
it held tight in its death grip.
The snow fluffs and dazzles as I shuffle-kick my feet through it.
Later, I sit before my large picture window,
fire roaring, a hot cup of tea warming hands and mouth,
knowing that,
when winter has gone on too long
(longer than it should,
even for the children),
the packed snow will crunch as we walk;
that which is on the steep barn roof will slide off
with its deafening roar,
scaring birds into flight;
the trees will creak and groan under its weight.
But, for the moment,
I will relish the warmth within,
reflecting on the glittering beauty without.
This is part of my collection titled Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, which is looking for a publishing home.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1986
Winter has unofficially arrived.
The calendar says it won't be here for yet a month.
Still,
here outside my window,
is the first
unsullied
virgin snow.
Here and there,
little specks of mica and sparkles glisten
on the cold, white velvet.
A flash of color on the edge of the woods;
the resident cardinal, who lives in the tree near the kitchen window,
swoops out and lights onto the lowest branch of his tree.
I must remember to buy him some suet and seeds today.
Later, I trek outside,
watching my smoky breath rise in the clear air.
I take a deep breath, purging my lungs.
Somewhere in the distance, a dog barks;
his voice carries and echoes slightly.
A brown, withered leaf clings to a nearby tree,
as though, afraid of the last long plunge to earth,
it held tight in its death grip.
The snow fluffs and dazzles as I shuffle-kick my feet through it.
Later, I sit before my large picture window,
fire roaring, a hot cup of tea warming hands and mouth,
knowing that,
when winter has gone on too long
(longer than it should,
even for the children),
the packed snow will crunch as we walk;
that which is on the steep barn roof will slide off
with its deafening roar,
scaring birds into flight;
the trees will creak and groan under its weight.
But, for the moment,
I will relish the warmth within,
reflecting on the glittering beauty without.
This is part of my collection titled Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, which is looking for a publishing home.
Wednesday, June 22, 2022
FALL AFTERNOON
FALL AFTERNOON
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1985
Fall afternoon.
The season's change snuck up on us
during the night,
catching us only
partially
unawares.
"Temperatures should dip tonight,"
the weatherman said
at eleven
last night.
Summer's heat is gone.
We knew it couldn't last;
the sweltering air was getting old,
anyway.
Soon,
we'll be eating stew
and lots of spaghetti,
putting away the
outdoor grill
for another year.
We go for a walk after dinner,
savoring the tart-apple-crunch feel of the air,
making our faces pink
as we smell
the acrid smoke rising from the neighbor's chimney.
Soon,
the leaves will
go into their magic show,
turning red,
orange,
yellow,
before
falling,
brown,
dead,
to be
raked into piles.
We'll put large potatoes
and corn,
wrapped in foil,
near the bottom of the piles,
and then add a little of our own colors
(red,
orange,
yellow),
dancing into the afternoon air,
warming us (in our sweaters)
as it burns the leaves
and makes the potatoes and corn
into something
almost too good to enjoy.
Except we enjoy it,
wolfing down the food.
(Even the children eat the skins -
the icky skins
they usually leave.)
Ah, the fall,
the smells of the smoke,
the foods,
the leaves rotting after the rains,
the settling of the earth,
the settling in of everything;
the sounds of crunching leaves,
the laughs of trick-or-treat,
the settling house;
the feel of the cooling air,
the rough wool sweaters
and cotton flannel shirts.
The sun
finally
sets
(early)
amid the colors,
and we are ready to relax
inside,
preparing for the days ahead.
This was written to evoke memories of a northeastern (U.S.) autumn. This poem is from my collection Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, currently looking for a publishing home.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1985
Fall afternoon.
The season's change snuck up on us
during the night,
catching us only
partially
unawares.
"Temperatures should dip tonight,"
the weatherman said
at eleven
last night.
Summer's heat is gone.
We knew it couldn't last;
the sweltering air was getting old,
anyway.
Soon,
we'll be eating stew
and lots of spaghetti,
putting away the
outdoor grill
for another year.
We go for a walk after dinner,
savoring the tart-apple-crunch feel of the air,
making our faces pink
as we smell
the acrid smoke rising from the neighbor's chimney.
Soon,
the leaves will
go into their magic show,
turning red,
orange,
yellow,
before
falling,
brown,
dead,
to be
raked into piles.
We'll put large potatoes
and corn,
wrapped in foil,
near the bottom of the piles,
and then add a little of our own colors
(red,
orange,
yellow),
dancing into the afternoon air,
warming us (in our sweaters)
as it burns the leaves
and makes the potatoes and corn
into something
almost too good to enjoy.
Except we enjoy it,
wolfing down the food.
(Even the children eat the skins -
the icky skins
they usually leave.)
Ah, the fall,
the smells of the smoke,
the foods,
the leaves rotting after the rains,
the settling of the earth,
the settling in of everything;
the sounds of crunching leaves,
the laughs of trick-or-treat,
the settling house;
the feel of the cooling air,
the rough wool sweaters
and cotton flannel shirts.
The sun
finally
sets
(early)
amid the colors,
and we are ready to relax
inside,
preparing for the days ahead.
This was written to evoke memories of a northeastern (U.S.) autumn. This poem is from my collection Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, currently looking for a publishing home.
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