Ronald Shields

Ronald Shields Poems


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

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?) .

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

Ronald Shields Biography

Married father of 2, too young and broke to retire but I did it anyway. I am relatively new to poetry writing and analysis. Thank you for reading my work, if you leave a comment I will happily return the favor. Please visit my blogs or get in touch via Facebook or Twitter. @ronaldanne FB Ronald E. Shields)

The Best Poem Of Ronald Shields


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 eggs are served with sympathy
for another birthday missed
the road is more than miles for
the trucker who takes them over hard.

Booth number 9 is an omelet and oatmeal
a preacher and acolyte looking for a church
the preacher's collar is frayed and yellowed
in service to a god who speaks too softly.

At the table by the door the farmers drink
coffee and talk of weather tractors prices
they have the look of a dying breed not because
they are old -their sons are off to college the
army the city or anywhere else
daughters will wait
not one of them will marry a farmer.

A young couple passing through
sits in number 8 close almost huddled
the boy counts his coins the girl looks cold
the waitress brings hot tea
'It's on the house honey.' They order toast
to share, she slips ham onto to the
plate when the cook's not looking
'I'll take that outta your tips.'
he never does.

The woman at the end of the counter
tattoos a glass with her lips
she is the blue plate special one egg
one pancake two strips of hard salty bacon
the long night gives her an appetite for
comfort and something real before going home
to wash the haze of stale cologne out of her hair.

Street lights go out
the sun promises warmth
diners pay bills homage thanks
and go out to live in the light
the waitress cleans tables
then counts her tips

She floats from counter to table
to booth serving coffee water eggs toast and
some things not on the menu
reassurance hope sustenance for the day
she takes their orders brings what they need
and all of this beneath a sign that says EAT.

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