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.
Friday, November 12, 2021
Monday, November 8, 2021
YBOR AFTERNOON
YBOR AFTERNOON
by Robin Shwedo
© Robin Shwedo, 1995
Ybor -
even the name evokes memories.
On a grey, wet and rainy Sunday,
the air so heavy,
you can almost see the water droplets
suspended in air
in a heavy shrouded mist,
I drive there.
My son and his wife, my friends, live there.
He has called;
“We’re ready when you are.”
I’m to pick her up, then meet him “in town.”
The drive is not long
over battleship grey, shimmering water —
on a dreary day,
the only real color being
the head and tail lights,
the bright red car ahead of me,
the electric blue one next to me.
In half an hour, I’m there,
knocking on the door.
The house appears
deserted,
but in actuality
houses three or more in the dim decay.
The door opens slowly,
then wide.
“You’re here!” she exclaims.
She had no way of knowing I was on my way;
besides no lights,
there is no phone.
There is a loud Thump THUMP THUMPING
from a house nearby,
blaring reggae music,
as if the noise could shake some color
into the area,
the rain away.
We talk in hushed and raucous tones,
depending on the swinging mood,
then head out to meet up with him.
Turning the corner to the main drag,
we are bombarded by cascading lights
draped across the street as archways,
waterfalling down light polls.
Even if it were not December,
it still looks like Christmas,
lights and hustling noise
bombarding the senses.
We cruise along,
looking at the brightly lit shops,
the neon signs appearing as colorful islands in the grey cold air.
We find a parking space,
leave the warm car,
and brave the chill
where we wait
among friends
and crazy,
harmless
strangers
for him to show.
The sky darkens,
deepens,
closing softly as a velvet cape.
When finally he arrives,
we are ready for coffee;
the specialty shop,
close by,
a warm, brightly-lit hole-in-the-wall,
has a brick wall inside,
café tables and chairs with candles next to the wall.
It feels comfortable,
as though no strangers can arrive,
only friends.
We debate on coffee flavors
before deciding on hazelnut cinnamon,
with poppy seed bagels and vegetable cream cheese,
which we greedily consume
at a table by a window,
where we watch the parade of window shoppers
wander by.
Finally,
it is time to leave;
I drop them off at home,
feeling scared, depressed,
empty,
at leaving them in a cold,
unlit house.
And yet,
it is their first place,
their leaping-off point.
And so,
I turn the car toward the interstate,
see the line of tail lights heading into the
grey and grainy misty night
and head for home.
Ybor City is a historic section of Tampa, Florida. It was home for many Cubans and Italians, with many cigar factories; for many years, it was also home to artists and the avant garde. Several movies and TV shows were filmed, in part, in Ybor, including Cop and a Half (with Burt Reynolds).
My oldest son lived in Ybor City several times, once while married. It was after a visit with them that I wrote this poem. It is in my book of poetry, titled Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is currently looking for a publishing home.
by Robin Shwedo
© Robin Shwedo, 1995
Ybor -
even the name evokes memories.
On a grey, wet and rainy Sunday,
the air so heavy,
you can almost see the water droplets
suspended in air
in a heavy shrouded mist,
I drive there.
My son and his wife, my friends, live there.
He has called;
“We’re ready when you are.”
I’m to pick her up, then meet him “in town.”
The drive is not long
over battleship grey, shimmering water —
on a dreary day,
the only real color being
the head and tail lights,
the bright red car ahead of me,
the electric blue one next to me.
In half an hour, I’m there,
knocking on the door.
The house appears
deserted,
but in actuality
houses three or more in the dim decay.
The door opens slowly,
then wide.
“You’re here!” she exclaims.
She had no way of knowing I was on my way;
besides no lights,
there is no phone.
There is a loud Thump THUMP THUMPING
from a house nearby,
blaring reggae music,
as if the noise could shake some color
into the area,
the rain away.
We talk in hushed and raucous tones,
depending on the swinging mood,
then head out to meet up with him.
Turning the corner to the main drag,
we are bombarded by cascading lights
draped across the street as archways,
waterfalling down light polls.
Even if it were not December,
it still looks like Christmas,
lights and hustling noise
bombarding the senses.
We cruise along,
looking at the brightly lit shops,
the neon signs appearing as colorful islands in the grey cold air.
We find a parking space,
leave the warm car,
and brave the chill
where we wait
among friends
and crazy,
harmless
strangers
for him to show.
The sky darkens,
deepens,
closing softly as a velvet cape.
When finally he arrives,
we are ready for coffee;
the specialty shop,
close by,
a warm, brightly-lit hole-in-the-wall,
has a brick wall inside,
café tables and chairs with candles next to the wall.
It feels comfortable,
as though no strangers can arrive,
only friends.
We debate on coffee flavors
before deciding on hazelnut cinnamon,
with poppy seed bagels and vegetable cream cheese,
which we greedily consume
at a table by a window,
where we watch the parade of window shoppers
wander by.
Finally,
it is time to leave;
I drop them off at home,
feeling scared, depressed,
empty,
at leaving them in a cold,
unlit house.
And yet,
it is their first place,
their leaping-off point.
And so,
I turn the car toward the interstate,
see the line of tail lights heading into the
grey and grainy misty night
and head for home.
Ybor City is a historic section of Tampa, Florida. It was home for many Cubans and Italians, with many cigar factories; for many years, it was also home to artists and the avant garde. Several movies and TV shows were filmed, in part, in Ybor, including Cop and a Half (with Burt Reynolds).
My oldest son lived in Ybor City several times, once while married. It was after a visit with them that I wrote this poem. It is in my book of poetry, titled Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is currently looking for a publishing home.
Friday, October 1, 2021
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, September 30, 2021
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.
Wednesday, September 29, 2021
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.
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.
Monday, September 27, 2021
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.
Friday, September 24, 2021
GIRL AT ELEVEN
GIRL AT ELEVEN
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1987
Jelly-shoes and painted toes,
frizzled hair and freckled nose,
giggles fast and talk sure-fire,
arms and legs that never tire;
runs and skips and leaps galore;
hope it's summer ever more.
Hey, it's great to be eleven;
summer fun's as good as heaven.
This was written during the summer of 1987 and is part of my book Love, Feelings, and the Seasons of Life, which is looking for a publisher.
Anyone who has watched a child play, especially outside during the summer, knows how energetic play can be. That is was this poem celebrates.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1987
Jelly-shoes and painted toes,
frizzled hair and freckled nose,
giggles fast and talk sure-fire,
arms and legs that never tire;
runs and skips and leaps galore;
hope it's summer ever more.
Hey, it's great to be eleven;
summer fun's as good as heaven.
This was written during the summer of 1987 and is part of my book Love, Feelings, and the Seasons of Life, which is looking for a publisher.
Anyone who has watched a child play, especially outside during the summer, knows how energetic play can be. That is was this poem celebrates.
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