Biography of Ron Stock
Graduated, Professional Art Degree, Western Michigan University
Studio Gallery on San Francisco waterfront for 3 years
Paintings at www.ronstock.com
Licensed General Contractor in Berkeley for 10 years
Retired at 48, went on the Budget Highway in Central, South America, Europe, Africa for 4 years
Now spend 6 months a year in Mexico and 6 months in New Mexico
A sanctioned Director with the American Contract Bridge League
Currently teaching art to high school scholarship students in Mexico
Dabbled in poetry all my life, but now taking it more seriously
Ron Stock's Works:
Harry's Secret - a novel - available at www.amazon.com and on kindle
Mom And Pop Play Bridge - A Primer Using The K.I.S.S. Method (Keep It Simple Stupid) For Winning At Duplicate Bridge. Available from author
Shipwrecked Vowels - Poems - Available from author
Ron Stock Poems
You Don't Gotta Go To No God-Damn School...
My best friend of forty-five years died not too long ago and like the fool I used to be I reacted with machismo. I was building a home on a mesa of wild rabbits and sage, thinking about my pal I was depressed, angry, in a rage.
Religion Is God's Poison
There ain't no dummies round here that I know of Reason is opposite of faith
Ballad Of Big Shot Bobby
It started on the diamond in our baseball Little League, fighting to be heroes, we were down by only three. It was our team's last at bat, all three ducks were on the pond, when up sashays Bobby with his Louisville Slugger wand.
Now the hail - was a beast With its ice - and its snow And its plume
An Old Rosewood Cane
1947. The sky was blue, the sun hot, the clouds white, the water cool. Short, squat, Dr. Chicky,71, was sitting on a beach of fine white sand, on the shoreline of Lake Huron, in Michigan, his body lightly tanned, as he sipped mint tea, read exotic passages from a D. H. Lawrence book, and occasionally thought of the accident, and the driver who almost took his life, and left, in fact, both legs, from ankles to thighs, in solid plaster casts. Now, he hobbled around with two old rosewood canes; obviously, not very fast.
My Dysfunctional Baggage Clearance Sale
I've had two recurring dreams in my life. One: I'm in a large house, always in an attic, always bright and sunny, always lots of windows. I walk down a narrow staircase,
The Unforgivable Sins Of Sodom And Gomor...
A clanging bell in the steeple of a small, white clapboard Southern church invited folks to worship for an hour or so. The knell resonated in the cool air over a parking lot with older cars, around the well-maintained lawn and shrubbery, and through an orchard of old apple trees before dissolving into a lush green landscape, of rolling hills. Three narrow, arched, stained-glass windows high off the ground, were framed into the east and west walls. A utility door opened to the back, the south. And a large, arched, bright red door, up three steps, under an elevated, covered front porch between two more stained-glass windows, welcomed the black congregation at the entrance. Today's sermon, delivered by robust Reverend Baker, was a message on the sins of homosexuality. Sodomy. His words, he believed, delivered directly from God, focused on passages from the Bible: One: Jude 6-7. 'Even as Sodom and Gomorrah and the cities about them, in like manner, giving themselves to fornication and going after strange flesh, are set forth as an example and will suffer the vengeance of eternal fire.' Two, Leviticus 18: 13: 'If there is a man who lies with a male as those who lie with a woman, both of them have committed a detestable act; they shall be put to death.'
Exploring The Dark Side Of The Garden Of...
Roger,35, is a tall, blond, thickset, redneck handyman, and as strong as a buffalo. He's dressed in a green-checkered shirt, brown safari hat, tattered jeans. His son, Denny,9, is small, thin-skinned, sweet. He collects stamps, listens to rap, and today wears tan pants, a teal coat, black tennis shoes, a Seattle Mariners baseball cap. It's cool in the Northwest. A mist hangs, below soft gray clouds and narrow bands of pale-blue violet sky. Rolling swells blanket nervous seas. A slight breeze whisks away the tips of dancing waves. Roger and Denny are in a 15-foot aluminum boat. Roger is fishing for Sockeye Salmon in Puget Sound, near a gentle rip tide racing through a whitewater channel. The outboard motor churns, as Roger points his boat into the flow of the tide, and remains stationary. Next, he stands, steadies the throttle arm with one knee, casts his lure into a small pool, and almost immediately hooks a big, strong, fighting fish. Salmon like to run away from the tug so Roger gives out line. When his prey tires he tries to reel it back in, but before he can, this determined fish pulls his boat into a spinning vortex measuring over 50 feet wide. As the craft circles around just inside the perimeter of the vortex, Roger, Booming Yahoos, holds his pole over his head, while he, the terrified boy, and boat, are pirouetting around and around under his stationary rod and reel. All laughing stops when Roger's line tangles on the propeller blade and snaps. The beast, swims free. The engine sputters, dies. A loud whine as Denny, dizzy, ashen-faced, slumps to the floor of the boat now spinning around in ever smaller and faster circles. With no oars on board to pull out of the vortex, Roger tilts the engine up, reaches down to untangle his line from the prop with a knife, finishes, lowers the motor, stands again, and pulls on the starting cord. The engine does not turn over. Roger pulls until the engine ignites, but the throttle with the over-sensitive spring is open too far, so while standing, when the motor sparks to life, the boat slings Roger over a gunnel into the swirling sea. So now boy, in boat, with churning outboard motor jerked aside, and man, in water, are being sucked down into the funneling hole.
A Super Dull Pin Survives A Passionate F...
In my youth, I had a strong body, but mind wise, as this tale will confirm, I was not, the sharpest pin in the cushion. In any case, on this warm Saturday afternoon, stoned, as I strolled barefoot under shade trees in a park near Waikiki Beach on Oahu, I drifted into measuring the density of soft blades of thick green grass, squishing, between my toes. And then, far to my left, I noticed; sitting on the beach, on a blanket, near the water, reading a book; a thin, ravishing young woman with jet black hair, in a bright red bikini. I stood, breathless, still as rock, wide-eyed, staring, absorbing, the full dynamic rush of sexual energy building below my belly button. I was attracted, as always, to an attractive young female body, and sashayed over, to hopefully engage in, a friendly little chat. As I approached the woman in the red bikini, a tall, fit, gorgeous young man with blond hair dressed in bold, yellow, dripping wet swim trunks, arrived from the waterside at the same moment. He had in his left hand a spear gun, and attached to the tip of his spear gun was a bizarre, big-lipped fish, with sharp spines covering it's balloon-shaped body. "What's that? " I asked. "A puffer fish, " the gorgeous young man answered, and because I wanted to feel, up close, the pulsating magnetic heat of the ravishing young woman in the red bikini, I asked the man if I could cut the fish open, and examine what was inside.
Do Not Become Attached Nor Afraid
The last week of 1968. In an old white house called The Ghetto West in Kalamazoo. A friend and I are in a basement room of barn wood walls and carpeting green and blue. A groovy space with a universe of stars painted on a flat black ceiling, candles galore, incense burning, and the mellow sounds from a stereo on the edge of a sunken floor. I'm on my back, eyes closed, on the rim, head propped against a pillow. Mort, my guide, has asked me to swallow a 550-microgram tab of LSD, lysergic acid diethylamide. Mort reads from The Psychedelic Experience; Leary, Alpert, and Metzner's book based upon The Tibetan Book of the Dead. I feel woozy, but I am able to listen. 'O Ron, the time has come for you to seek new levels of reality. Your ego and the Ron game are about to cease. You are about to be set face to face with the clear light. Do not become attached nor afraid.' Sometime later, musical notes become raw vibrant colors that merge and explode into dazzling molecular waves of energy. I sit up, open my eyes. The walls are vibrating, side to side, dancing, up and down, shimmying, to and fro, just before they pulsate into an intense red hot flame and melt away. Faaaaar out! I think. But I did think. The point is not to think. To let go. To blow out, the flame of thought. To find the clear light. I lie down, relax, try to keep my, Ego Death, in sight. Eyes closed, kaleidoscopic images cascade over a spring of liquid inside my glistening arteries. Red, orange, and yellow psychedelic spinning childhood memories swirl, mingle, fuse with a retinal circus of floating amoebic forms. Darwinian insights carry my mind's eye back down the flow of time until the drumbeat of my heart, beats, with
For A Few Hours We Were All The Same
of Hurricane Patricia slamming into the little fishing village of La Manzanilla del Mar, Mexico, on October 23,2015, in the late afternoon, early evening light, until darkness of palm trees that swished and swayed like pulsating jellyfish in the violent turbulence of water-drenched green leaves pasted in elaborate patterns across colorful adobe walls of a baby chick, in a nest, in a weak tree, of how it survived 165 mph winds, or not
A Love Poem For Endangered Species
These friends need our help who are swimming in the water. The Nile crocodile and the Congo clawless otter. The American alligator and the Ganges River dolphin. The Loggerhead sea turtle and the Utah Lake sculpin.
No One Loses Love That Isn't There
No Ordinary Laughing Cowboy He
My Daddie and I didn't always get along, Best day of my life's the day he passed on. 'Cause too many times when he started to drinking, The crusty ol' fool just seemed to stop thinking.
Ballad Of Big Shot Bobby
It started on the diamond in our baseball Little League,
fighting to be heroes, we were down by only three.
It was our team's last at bat, all three ducks were on the pond,
when up sashays Bobby with his Louisville Slugger wand.
The stadium went wild, all the crowd was on its feet,
when he blasted a grand slam homer. Whack! Into the bleacher seats.
I was sitting on the bench and of course I saw it all
so I know