Ronald Shields

He is Hank to anyone who knows.
When he drinks it is just enough to
release something bright, alive (his soul?) ,
or stifle something dark, putrid (his soul?) .
...

Cold and dark in the morning
talk comes with a price
it is a bargain for the waitress
and diners get what they need.
...

The snow teaches me separateness,
the ice to be hard.
Though I was born in the desert,
where the teachers are sand and rocks,
...

You are a master of suspense
Hitchcockian so to speak.
The air is thick with confusion
I don't know whether to breathe in or out.
...

Going down to the river in ivory robes
seeking sacraments
and the white heat of some amazing grace.
The Ghost is circling the congregation
...

Victoria Neale is a true Nomad.
She walks the land on well feathered paths.
Her stride is long and bold.
Her journey wide eyed and full.
...

When there is nothing left to say
I will brush the cobwebs from my soul,
this rusted dented old soul.
Unfurl it, let it catch the freshening breeze
...

He fell so gracefully
for a moment it looked liked he meant it.
The fall was perfectly balanced like
the sweep of a dancer's arm in reverence
...

There is power in seeming certain - danger also.
When the Witch is dead you will be held to account for promises made.
Dorothy and her companions, scarred and fresh from the kill
demand something more than thirty pieces.
...

I have a story to tell. A familiar one of a kind tale.
Colored by pigment and biased with a name.
Breeding contempt or some other monstrous thing
in hearts that pump fear as if it was life itself.
...

Kid fears bring comfort.
To the no longer young
they are faith in this world.
To those who have become the stranger,
...

Like water they find their way to ground.
So I have names to give, stories to tell
words to whisper, words to sing,
words of reason and madness.
...

It comes and goes like a hummingbird
or snow in April.
When it goes there is a hole
and when the wind blows everyone can feel it.
...

Her face is a lightning strike
with prowling eyes
and razor sharp lips,
her tongue a dagger for an unfortunate heart.
...

I remember the voice. Quiet,
soft as a caress on the back of my neck,
coating my heart and mind
the way dust settles
...

The sky is parched.
The landscape is scorched.
Brown and gray hang in the air
suspended on shimmering wire.
...

She pulls on white stockings,
steps into spongy white shoes.
Except for the crest her uniform
is white. Not cold or harsh, the
...

The wreaths are piling up on the curb. Coffins line streets swept and stainless. Some one asks why, there are murmurs in the crowd. I am beyond curiosity, tired of the story that begins with Blood and ends in Glory. Glory, worshiped in the streets, feared in our hearts. Glory, bought with sin, greed and the end of innocence. Glory, balm for the living because the dead do not need soothing. Glory, an epithet hammered into gravestones. Glory in death -wrap that lie in a flag and praise it to heaven. We are false prophets and our blessing has cursed the dead with the Blood sacrifice.

Blood is paid for with youth, salvation, faith -everything, all they have and ever will. Blood is given (taken) in our name and we can only offer up sorrow, prayers, songs, statues. Blood should bring guilt, shame, truth, but we deny, deny, deny, and deny the abomination we have become. 2,000 suicides,3,000 dead,130,000 killed,6 million murdered,60 million casualties... the numbers do not lie. And we will go on counting the dead while rain polishes their headstones smooth.
...

Against the day I am powerless
so I rise
to face it
in the mirror.
...

What can be done for a love
that is a driving force?
Release your strange heart,
begin to know what you
...