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.
Saturday, October 22, 2016
Friday, October 21, 2016
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 bad, 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 bad, 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.
Thursday, October 20, 2016
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.
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.
Wednesday, October 19, 2016
THE LOSS OF A FRIEND
THE LOSS OF A FRIEND
for Dick; book store owner, extraordinaire
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1994, 2005
"He died," you say.
The words echo impotently,
as strange and empty
as though you had told me
it rained one day in 1852.
I hear you, I understand,
but somehow, it does not seem real.
Last week, when I stopped by
you mentioned he had been feeling ill for several days,
and would not be down, that rainy afternoon.
I heard him upstairs,
occasionally scrapping a chair on the floor,
or coming down hard when he stood up,
thumping and shuffling around above us.
The weekend before, while we talked in the back room,
he had come in from his office-cubicle,
and, leaving to get you a Coke from next door,
offered to bring me back one.
I showed him my hot-coffee-in-icky-styrofoam,
and thanked him, anyway.
And now, "He died Monday."
Just over 24 hours since I heard him.
Never made it to the procedure to make him better
(but maybe not well),
which, had Wednesday come,
he might have been too weak for.
The past two days,
I have looked at the ceramic porcupine
you gave me from the shop,
as though to reaffirm it (or he) is still here.
This morning, I looked out my kitchen window at
the overcast sky, promising rain,
and noticed birds huddle on the power line
like so many musical notes.
I counted to see how many birds there were
in this melody.
Oooonnneee,
(half hidden behind the neighbor's chimney)
two, three,
(I've never bought into the reincarnation stuff;
I share the Christian belief of
one birth,
one life,
one death,
one afterlife per person)
four, five, six,
(I almost feel, though,
that I can sense your spirit
with these notes
shivering against the impending rain)
seven,
eight,
nine, ten,
(you had a great record collection in
your store -
Big Band,
jazz,
everything)
eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen,
fifteen,
on the top line,
numbers sixteen and seventeen
one line lower,
and three more -
eighteen, nineteen and twenty -
on a third line at a right angle.
Suddenly,
as if on a quiet count from
a Big Band Beat,
they fly,
bringing your spirit soaring with them.
This is based on a real death. Dick owned a bookstore in Pinellas Park, Florida for the last few years of his life. It was a funky place with new and used books, several shelves in the middle of one room with tons of vinyl records, and a definite feel to it. He also had several comfortable chairs in the first room just inside the front door, along with a coffee urn and a pot of hot water for the selection of herbal teas and cocoa offered free of charge. His office was next to a staircase in a small room; the staircase led to his apartment above the bookstore.
Dick's death came as a shock; he'd been sick for maybe a week, and his significant other kept the store going until his death, then had to make the necessary calls to friends. At his memorial service, held at the bookstore, she chose small knickknacks to pass out to regulars to remember Dick by.
Most of this poem was written shortly after Dick's death, the last 5 lines in 2005. It took me that long to finish it.
This is part of a growing collection tentatively titled Poetry for a Busy Life.
for Dick; book store owner, extraordinaire
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1994, 2005
"He died," you say.
The words echo impotently,
as strange and empty
as though you had told me
it rained one day in 1852.
I hear you, I understand,
but somehow, it does not seem real.
Last week, when I stopped by
you mentioned he had been feeling ill for several days,
and would not be down, that rainy afternoon.
I heard him upstairs,
occasionally scrapping a chair on the floor,
or coming down hard when he stood up,
thumping and shuffling around above us.
The weekend before, while we talked in the back room,
he had come in from his office-cubicle,
and, leaving to get you a Coke from next door,
offered to bring me back one.
I showed him my hot-coffee-in-icky-styrofoam,
and thanked him, anyway.
And now, "He died Monday."
Just over 24 hours since I heard him.
Never made it to the procedure to make him better
(but maybe not well),
which, had Wednesday come,
he might have been too weak for.
The past two days,
I have looked at the ceramic porcupine
you gave me from the shop,
as though to reaffirm it (or he) is still here.
This morning, I looked out my kitchen window at
the overcast sky, promising rain,
and noticed birds huddle on the power line
like so many musical notes.
I counted to see how many birds there were
in this melody.
Oooonnneee,
(half hidden behind the neighbor's chimney)
two, three,
(I've never bought into the reincarnation stuff;
I share the Christian belief of
one birth,
one life,
one death,
one afterlife per person)
four, five, six,
(I almost feel, though,
that I can sense your spirit
with these notes
shivering against the impending rain)
seven,
eight,
nine, ten,
(you had a great record collection in
your store -
Big Band,
jazz,
everything)
eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen,
fifteen,
on the top line,
numbers sixteen and seventeen
one line lower,
and three more -
eighteen, nineteen and twenty -
on a third line at a right angle.
Suddenly,
as if on a quiet count from
a Big Band Beat,
they fly,
bringing your spirit soaring with them.
This is based on a real death. Dick owned a bookstore in Pinellas Park, Florida for the last few years of his life. It was a funky place with new and used books, several shelves in the middle of one room with tons of vinyl records, and a definite feel to it. He also had several comfortable chairs in the first room just inside the front door, along with a coffee urn and a pot of hot water for the selection of herbal teas and cocoa offered free of charge. His office was next to a staircase in a small room; the staircase led to his apartment above the bookstore.
Dick's death came as a shock; he'd been sick for maybe a week, and his significant other kept the store going until his death, then had to make the necessary calls to friends. At his memorial service, held at the bookstore, she chose small knickknacks to pass out to regulars to remember Dick by.
Most of this poem was written shortly after Dick's death, the last 5 lines in 2005. It took me that long to finish it.
This is part of a growing collection tentatively titled Poetry for a Busy Life.
Tuesday, October 18, 2016
MIDNIGHT MAGIC
MIDNIGHT MAGIC
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1990
Magic must have visited last night.
Standing on the porch at ten,
I felt the light,
fall rain.
The air had cooled -
"Only from the rain,"
we had agreed.
We went to bed.
Just before midnight,
the children stirred.
"It's cold, Mama."
We covered them,
then stood,
huddled together by the kitchen window,
and watched
as the rain
turned white
and fluffy.
Back in our bed,
we watched the
eerie blanket fall.
The oak
outside our window
became a powdered beauty.
By one,
the snow had stopped.
The wind came,
blew with all its might,
and pushed the slight
powder onto the ground.
It was bitter,
the wind,
and froze everything
with its icy stare.
By morning,
our oak had
become glass-like in its appearance.
Magic had arrived.
A brief description on the seasons changing. This comes from my book Poetry Unassigned, which is looking for a publisher.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1990
Magic must have visited last night.
Standing on the porch at ten,
I felt the light,
fall rain.
The air had cooled -
"Only from the rain,"
we had agreed.
We went to bed.
Just before midnight,
the children stirred.
"It's cold, Mama."
We covered them,
then stood,
huddled together by the kitchen window,
and watched
as the rain
turned white
and fluffy.
Back in our bed,
we watched the
eerie blanket fall.
The oak
outside our window
became a powdered beauty.
By one,
the snow had stopped.
The wind came,
blew with all its might,
and pushed the slight
powder onto the ground.
It was bitter,
the wind,
and froze everything
with its icy stare.
By morning,
our oak had
become glass-like in its appearance.
Magic had arrived.
A brief description on the seasons changing. This comes from my book Poetry Unassigned, which is looking for a publisher.
Monday, October 17, 2016
REJECTION
REJECTION
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1995
The day I dyed my hair blue,
I was asked “why?” more than once.
Always, I’d answer, “Felt like it.”
Of course, it’s much more complex,
but what it boils down to is this:
Rejection.
Being way different is hard enough,
the biggest fear being that
No One Will Like You.
However,
give someone something they can latch onto:
Dye your hair blue,
wear combat boots with your dress,
and people can immediately give you a reason
you can laugh at.
It’s never you they’re rejecting you for,
it’s the fact that you have blue hair.
At least this way,
you can always pretend
“When the dye wears off,
then they’ll accept me.”
It’s easier to be rejected for deliberate ways
then things you can’t change.
This was written shortly after the second or third time I'd dyed the ends of my hair midnight blue. The first time, my oldest son had brought home some blue hair dye from the Ybor City section of Tampa, Florida, then decided he wasn't going to use the dye.
"You use it, Mom," he told me. "Don't worry, it washes out after a week or two."
At the time, I'd had a guy whose path crossed mine a couple of times a week who was more interested in me than I was in him. Finally, I told him to back off or I'd dye my hair blue.
"You do that, I'll never speak with you again!" he proclaimed. I wished I'd gotten it in writing, because the next day, when he saw me with the blue ends on my hair, he decided, "Somehow, on you, it just works!" Fortunately, I did manage to dissuade him.
Others, though, occasionally found the hair, um, too different. I did finally quit dying the ends of my hair after maybe half-a-dozen dyings...
This poem is part of Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is looking for a publishing home.
Note: Check out https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/161941492/another-day-in-paradise and consider being a backer for a documentary. Backing starts as low as $10 - $25, and each level comes with a shout-out on Twitter and Facebook, as well as gifts!
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1995
The day I dyed my hair blue,
I was asked “why?” more than once.
Always, I’d answer, “Felt like it.”
Of course, it’s much more complex,
but what it boils down to is this:
Rejection.
Being way different is hard enough,
the biggest fear being that
No One Will Like You.
However,
give someone something they can latch onto:
Dye your hair blue,
wear combat boots with your dress,
and people can immediately give you a reason
you can laugh at.
It’s never you they’re rejecting you for,
it’s the fact that you have blue hair.
At least this way,
you can always pretend
“When the dye wears off,
then they’ll accept me.”
It’s easier to be rejected for deliberate ways
then things you can’t change.
This was written shortly after the second or third time I'd dyed the ends of my hair midnight blue. The first time, my oldest son had brought home some blue hair dye from the Ybor City section of Tampa, Florida, then decided he wasn't going to use the dye.
"You use it, Mom," he told me. "Don't worry, it washes out after a week or two."
At the time, I'd had a guy whose path crossed mine a couple of times a week who was more interested in me than I was in him. Finally, I told him to back off or I'd dye my hair blue.
"You do that, I'll never speak with you again!" he proclaimed. I wished I'd gotten it in writing, because the next day, when he saw me with the blue ends on my hair, he decided, "Somehow, on you, it just works!" Fortunately, I did manage to dissuade him.
Others, though, occasionally found the hair, um, too different. I did finally quit dying the ends of my hair after maybe half-a-dozen dyings...
This poem is part of Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is looking for a publishing home.
Note: Check out https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/161941492/another-day-in-paradise and consider being a backer for a documentary. Backing starts as low as $10 - $25, and each level comes with a shout-out on Twitter and Facebook, as well as gifts!
Sunday, October 16, 2016
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.
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