Paul

PAUL

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 2004



The time we spend apart

is bleak.

I'm weak,

as though I have no heart

or feeling left inside.

I hide

my fears,

knowing depression here

will be misread by those

whose side

did I

come to see. Though I chose

to see my next of kin,

and I

did fly

to be with them, time when

I should be overjoyed,

I sink

within

myself. Beautiful boy,

red hair, blue eyes, smile pure

a glance,

per chance,

his dad's fair looks, for sure,

mom's temperament, both love,

I see

these three

beautiful ones betrothed.

Soul mates, like us, they need

to be

able

to see our love, stable.

Yet, time we spend apart

is bleak.

I'm weak,

as though I have no heart.

And when, at last, I'm home,

I say

I'll stay,

to share love – not alone.

This was written while visiting family, while my better-half stayed home. This is part of a growing collection tentatively titled Painted Words.

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.

Laundrymat

LAUNDRYMAT

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1994



Amazing how much life you can find

in mundane places.

The brutal death

of a washer and dryer -

stupid pieces of machinery -

suddenly necessitates going out to do

an almost intimate act.

God forbid the shower dies!

But,

clean clothes being so much nicer than filth,

and I'm out of the house with my beloved.

We've traded one outing with another,

been reduced to

watching rocking washers and swirling, colorful dryers

instead of artsy movies,

bags of chips and canned sodas over

popcorn and Milk-Duds.

I stand,

leaning forward on a table for folding laundry,

watching the towels and jeans,

t-shirts and sheets

tumbling, turning in a colorful collage.

Looking beyond,

the glass reflects different scenes,

people framed in metal circles.

What a strange way to watch someone.

After a while,

it's obvious how folks live;

we give ourselves away

in a hundred different ways:

two children playing quietly together,

two others wrestling around,

parents watching,

talking,

etc.

After a while,

nuances emerge.

"Yes, I usually do my laundry Mondays, but..."

It's Sunday night;

school and work tomorrow,

tonight,

whatever.

One machine done;

the others needed

an extra quarter.

Sitting,

I leaf through months old magazines;

"Fight off your kids' summer doldrums";

"Cool salads for hot evenings."

It's late November;

Thanksgiving trimmings will show up here

sometime around Easter.

Finally,

it's finished;

I bundle up the clothes

in plastic garbage bags

and leave for my pseudo-real life.



Most of us can relate to having to go to the laundromat from time to time. If done for any length of time - maybe because one's apartment doesn't have machine hook-ups, or we can't afford to buy the machines at the moment - one sees a pattern, the same people showing up (mostly) on the same days.

This is from my collection titled Poetry Unassigned.

DAYS LIKE THIS

DAYS LIKE THIS

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1996



Days like this,

I think straight lines are the most wonderful things.

True,

the scenery is mundane,

the colors somewhat mute,

when compared to wild roller coaster ups and downs,

but the ride is so much safer.

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

you “drag ass”, not able to get up,

not quite having all the gears “mesh”,

but an outer force keeps you going,

moving;

you let it because,

if you stop,

even for a second,

you’ll never move.

Ever.

Again.

Sounds are muted, distorted;

those that are loud enough to come through startle

with their bone-jarring

teeth-gritting noise.

Colors appear darker;

dark green leaves on brown-black trees

emit deep endless shadows

that threaten to drown you,

even as the branches menacingly reach for you.

The huge white clouds appear malicious,

creating looming faces which change to suite your mood.

Night arrives,

threatening to envelope you in its thick alive darkness.

Days on end grow dimmer and greyer,

almost unnerving in their endless progression,

when suddenly,

you feeling yourself

as you come close to drowning

hit bottom,

sink slightly,

then push off against the

bumpy hardness beneath you.

Suddenly - sometimes -

but oh, so surely,

you break through the foggy film into sunshine.

Wonderful sunshine!

There it is!

The sounds! The joyous sounds!

Birds singing, children laughing,

dogs barking, railroad crossings clanging

as the trains roar up the track,

puffing, chugging,

whistles blowing,

wheels turning,

engineers waving at

small children waving back.

Colors!

Yes, everywhere magnificent colors!

Even in the blackest night

and rainiest days,

the neon lights are alive,

dancing,

calling to you,

singing, “Here we are!

And There you are!

Hello!

Hello!”

The smells of roses!

Coffee floating out of open shops,

colorful sounds,

wonderful smells,

laughing sights,

everything’s so “up,

you’ll never come back down.



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



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

FIRST BORN

FIRST BORN

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1975



Baby's breath,

gentle,

as a wispy summer breeze,

touching the green grass.

You,

lying there,

asleep,

barely three days old.

Coming home today,

you cried through your

first big adventure.

Brown hair,

thinner than an old lady's,

short,

fine,

softer and more delicate

than anything imaginable.

Last week,

your daddy helped

a little boy

he never saw before

fly a kite.

That night,

he could hardly wait

to have a four-year-old.

But now,

gazing at you,

he,

as I,

is content to watch,

and wait,

and love you

for yourself.



Anyone who has ever had kids can probably relate. This is part of a collection titled Poetry Unassigned, which is looking for a publishing home.

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.

I WILL NOT BE SILENCED

I WILL NOT BE SILENCED

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1995



I will not be silenced.

You can try to quiet me

in any number of ways,

gently reasoning

through which I hear the

undercurrents of threats

(“Be a good girl, and I won’t get mad,”

to which I snarl, “Dogs go mad,

people get angry.” You retort,

“Bitch.”),

followed by blatant threats

and strong-arm tactics.

But -

I will not be silenced.

Close my mouth,

my actions will scream.

Shut my eyes;

my soul will see.

Plug my ears;

my heart will hear.

You can not quiet me.

Worse men have tried.

Only justice will tame my shouts;

only peace will calm my rantings;

only true love will settle me

without trying to master.

Only then will my loud voice calm to a whisper.

But, even a whisper is a sound,

so,

I will not be silenced.

Even if it is to say, “Thanks.”



From my collection titled Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, looking for a publishing home.

THE FLOWER

THE FLOWER

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1970s



I picked a flower today.

It was in a field of tall, green grass.

I had been laying there,

watching the clouds take shape,

and,

upon getting up to leave,

there it was!

In a scattered group of yellow daffodils

and wild red roses

was a single white flower -

bigger,

more beautiful than the rest.

And now,

inside,

it is only

a pretty flower

in an otherwise

bare room.



Written during the 1970s. Sometimes, it's best just to leave beauty where it's found.

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

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.

SUMMER

SUMMER

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1985



Summer.

The days are ablaze with life;

heat shimmering off the sidewalks,

slithering up the outside walls

of the buildings,

giving people a funny, wavy look from

the distance,

as though they dance

while,

really,

they walk.

Children,

out of school,

screeching

happily

through the streets,

down the sidewalks,

careening around the corners,

playing tag,

hide-and-seek,

red rover.

Shouts –

"I'll get Johnny;

meet us for baseball"

fill the air.

Mothers and fathers

taking children

to the zoo,

the park,

wherever,

while the other parent works,

studies,

is otherwise disengaged,

or, maybe, just not there.

Evenings come later, this time of year,

giving rise to more time

for outdoor play,

cookouts,

lazing around.

No hurry to do things before

turning on the lights.

Life is a carnival,

a blast,

easier to move

(no heavy clothes

to weigh one down).

As evening arrives,

people wander home;

maybe a late dinner,

or,

dinner over,

sit outside

in the grass,

on the porch,

wherever,

talking out plans,

futures,

loves,

what-have-you.

Dreams

simply have to drift

from consciousness

into sleep,

as crickets serenade one to sleep,

and stars cover the land

as a giant blanket.

Summer,

everyone can be a child.



Most of us have a favorite season, and each season seems to have its own feel, little nuances that make it different from the other seasons.

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

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

IMAGINE MY SURPRISE

IMAGINE MY SURPRISE

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1995



Surprise me.

Not that you haven’t already.

The day we met,

I unintentionally stepped on feet;

you set me straight.

I expected an explosive barrage of rage;

it was not to be.

I kept my distance,

not knowing what to expect.

Imagine my surprise

when friendship developed.

We’d meet,

our paths crossing,

and always,

always

you offered your friendship,

yourself,

nothing less.

Times, too many to count,

that you picked up the pieces

of my life,

my heart,

and never once asked in return,

can not be ignored

or forgotten.

There came a time

when I thought someone else would do;

I saw you less as I tried

to make it work.

When he left,

shattering my heart into so many pieces,

you were there,

soothing wounds I swore would never heal.

Imagine my surprise.

It seems amazing that

the one who was “only” a friend,

the one who I never meant to hurt

and did

may very well be

the one who could make me the happiest,

there all the time.

Imagine my surprise.



If we're lucky, we all run into people who surprise us in a good way.

This is from my collection titled Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is looking for a publishing home.

I WONDER

I WONDER

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1996



If I were to suddenly disappear,

I wonder if anyone would wonder

where I was,

or if I was okay;

if anyone would ask,

“What is she up to these days?”

Would “Is she alive?” enter their minds,

and,

if so,

would they really care for an answer,

or would it be a rhetorical question,

similar in consequence and concern as

“Some weather, huh?”

And so,

quietly I begin to cut ties,

sure it doesn’t matter

much

to anyone.

Except,

maybe,

to me.



We all have days when we feel this way. This is part of my collection titled Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares which is currently looking for a publishing home.

Running

RUNNING

By Robin Shwedo

© Robin Shwedo, 2007



Every morning, I run.

I don’t want to.

I want to.

Ambivalence is part of the run.

I accept that.



But first, priorities.



Start the coffee pot.

Turn on the TV.

Matt, Meredith, Al and Ann talking to me. I miss Katie.

Get the newspaper from the driveway.

Put the neighbor’s paper on his porch.

Go back inside.



What’s Al saying? Snow in Denver?

Perfect excuse for not running.

Except there’s no snow falling in Florida.



I find my running shorts, t-shirt. Put them on.

Socks from the dresser.

Back in the kitchen where I fix a cuppa joe.



Sit down at the table.

Matt’s talking to somebody.

Who? Gotta find out.

Coffee and Today.

Put on my socks. No holes in these ones. Yet.

Put on my shoes. Should have another couple of months with this pair.

Sip some coffee.

Tie one shoe.

Sip more coffee.

Tie other shoe.

Sip even more coffee.



Another weather report. Still snow in Denver.

Still none here.

Al, Al, Al. You sure know how to ruin a cup of coffee.



Grab a bottle of water.

Find my running cap.

Take the front door key.



Open. The. Door.



Lock the door.



Shut the door. With me outside.



Head for the sidewalk, already tired.



Why is it I’m always more alert after my run?



During my second semester at the University of South Florida St. Petersburg, I had two classes with the same professor, one of which was titled "Narration and Description". One of our assignments was to write a short poem dealing with the body in action. This was in early 2007, less than a year since Katie Couric had left The Today Show. My better-half and I were disappointed when Couric left, but life goes on.

I'd been a runner for a while when I wrote this. And while I've slowed down quite a bit, I still love getting out to walk or run in the morning. Or, rather, I love how I feel when I get back from running. Getting out the front door, however, can occasionally be a challenge!

This poem is part of a collection tentatively titled Poetry for a Busy Life.

The Whisper

THE WHISPER

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1995



I am loud.

I love vibrant colors -

Pillarbox red, midnight blue,

emerald green, splashy yellow,

in-your-face orange,

and sounds so colorful,

they make your heart dance

like a whirling kite in a

high wind,

bobbing,

dipping -

flutes, wind, laughter.

The down side

is loving rainy days,

where the only color

is gray,

with the neon signs

reflecting off the

wet pavement,

and the wind howls

as it drives the downpour,

gusting across the road,

slapping legs and back.

I am loud,

and love extremes,

usually the intense,

boisterous ones.

And when I met the

man I love,

how did he call to me?

He whispered.



This was written during the mid-1990s and is part of my collection titled Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares. The book is currently looking for a publisher.

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.

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.



Since today is the first day of winter, I thought this would be the best time to post this poem. It is part of my collection titled Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, which is looking for a publishing home.

Politics (X 2)

Politics

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 2015, 2016



I like my morning coffee light

with a sweet roll on the side.

I'd take my whisky sour

but I never want to hide.

There's way too much duplicity

to let the b.s. slide,

Especially with the trash-talkers

trying to take us for a ride.



The first four lines were written a while back, while the remainder was written within the last week. It's part of a growing collection titled Painted Words.



Note: Please check out Another Day in Paradise at GoFundMe. This is to help fund a documentary on homelessness, following 2 - 3 people as they struggle to get off the street. Backing starts at $10, with goodies for donations.

I WILL NOT BE SILENCED

I WILL NOT BE SILENCED

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1995



I will not be silenced.

You can try to quiet me

in any number of ways,

gently reasoning

through which I hear the

undercurrents of threats

(“Be a good girl, and I won’t get mad,”

to which I snarl, “Dogs go mad,

people get angry.” You retort,

“Bitch.”),

followed by blatant threats

and strong-arm tactics.

But -

I will not be silenced.

Close my mouth,

my actions will scream.

Shut my eyes;

my soul will see.

Plug my ears;

my heart will hear.

You can not quiet me.

Worse men have tried.

Only justice will tame my shouts;

only peace will calm my rantings;

only true love will settle me

without trying to master.

Only then will my loud voice calm to a whisper.

But, even a whisper is a sound,

so,

I will not be silenced.

Even if it is to say, “Thanks.”



From my collection titled Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, looking for a publishing home.

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.