Lawrie Stuart Ronton
Biography of Lawrie Stuart Ronton
Stuart Ronton, like many others, grew up in a busy urban town that was renown for its huge industry. He lived witha poor family and lived for 10 years in a shoddily assembled, one-floored house. Having no personal possessions, other than his widely famous clockwork mouse. Ronton moved out to seek a job at the age of only 10. Only a year later, both of his parents died of scurvy, leaving Ronton with nothing. He began writing poems and stories at the age of 13, which strongly influenced his beliefs and views on life.
At the age of only 15, he had his first poem published and printed. This was entitled 'I Am The Slotted Man'.
Producing at least two hundred pieces of poetry and writing more than 50 short stories, Stuart Ronton became extremely well known in the writing industry. Although, Ronton didn't just write poems, people say he made up strange beings and places in his mind. Putting each idea onto paper, Stuart Ronton was sentenced to five years in jail for expressing his beliefs. Many were offended by Rontons drawings of the dark creatures he created in his mind and from then on, his main focal point again became poetry. Most often, the poems resembled the ideas he had in his mind and sometimes even related to his complex pictures of the creatures and places.
After publishing his 'Book of Wrongdoings' in 1861, Ronton fell ill. Being condemned to a mental institute, he was monitored each and every day.
At the age of 35 he met his death after waking up in the middle of the night from a horrific dream. Ten minutes after waking up, he suffered a heart attack. One paitent claimed to have heard him shout 'Est con zild' before dying in his bed.
Lawrie Stuart Ronton's Works:
The Book of Wrongdoings
Lawrie Stuart Ronton Poems
No food, water or food, This is a Shortage. Most dead from starvation, Some from disorganised pyjamas.
A Moving Tale
O cold tingly morning, don't stand and stare at me, with those strangely shaped eyes.
Cowardly, dash into place, No mark see thee, upon thy face. Thy gentleman is trapped,
A Short Verse
A short verse, People disperse. Romans scramble, Light the candle.
Grand high besighted, Weapons delighted. This is a rather missed tale. You shall not pass!
Knights Of The Realm, Slain
Utter mercy, Three men thirsty. The only survivors, Hundred dead flowers.
The Tough Road
Magical, yet moving, Tropical, yet soothing. Bound in rope, The Beginning.
A Glass Pool
Shadowed by light, Not strong, no might. Reflections freeze, The afternoon, breeze.
Not mine, his. Views half clear yet shattered by ice. The Matyr sits.
In a powerful glamour, He stands. Broader than any loyal servant. lay on the floor,
Stoner brows, Not like a cows. He calls like the midnight owl, he caws to the sky,
The Shocking Tribe
Oh my! I say, Don't let them stay. In the midnight rancid situations.
Not A Shocking Myth
Only the fair few shall perish, Over five thousand years it reigns, The mosquito slaying, Rabid poker champions.
Not a hose, Nor the old rose. In the corner of the room, It blooms.
Not a hose,
Nor the old rose.
In the corner of the room,
Red petals, Not blue.
Call out in distress,
To the Phazaiyll,
It doesn't reply...
his van hits a ditch.
It draws the suspension,
from under its latch.
He lies in the ditch.