Robert Ronnow Poems

Between conjecture and classification there is
observation, experiment, data (collection and analysis) ,
statistics, calculus, and a good guess
about God's intentions - probabilities, fractals, chaos
...

            Your past, your romantic past, is a shadow. Like all towns, Port Washington was a combination of rain and clouds, sun and mist, with a chamber of commerce, barrooms and boards of directors, the known and unknown. No one of course is completely unknown. I was known for my tragic love life. She had found another man, a backwoods man, living on the land but not above a night on the town, who according to her would wipe snot on his pants, a statement of poverty or thrift or anger against the niceties of society. All of us heated our hovels with wood but only the rich burned hardwoods, me and probably this guy were softwood gatherers.

            There were few aspects to my life. First, I can remember a nook in the kitchen of the house I shared with a beautiful faceless woman who wore a ring in her nose where I wrote and watched flocks of unidentified birds comb a tree for seeds. This particular day the sky was blue with clean pillowy cumulus clouds floating toward Puget Sound. I believe all the poems written in that nook have been forgotten by their author.
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At dinner, Zach asks
about our nation's history, wars.
I say We're taking on everyone, one at a time.
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Supermarket celebration
shoppers are cytoplasm searching
for cellulose, muscle, photosynthesis.
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If a poem or essay can end with a conclusion or its
      opposite, either one,
Can it be of any use to anyone?
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You'll soon lose interest in walking
and talking and wearing the cap
of a fool. You'll.
            Words: walk, talk, wear, cap, fool, you, soon,
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I like immigrants, immigration. Legal immigration, Jane
passionately corrects. Actually my goal is a borderless
      world.
That's a new idea to her.
...

Yogurt.
'I begin the day buying yogurt in a small favorite grocery
      store.'
Not pizza, nor gatorade.
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The wood is stacked for winter.
One way out of the mind's limitations
is through other minds' contemplations.
The books are stacked for winter.
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Not like a figwort but not an aster, either. Could he be a
      buttercup
with sepals, no petals, but sepals like petals? Alan is a
      bluebeech,
...