Biography of Ronald Shields
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.
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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.
June Bug Love For Charles Bukowski
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?) .
Walking In Snow
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.
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
To Victoria Neale, Where Ever She Be
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.
Some Amazing Grace
Going down to the river in ivory robes seeking sacraments and the white heat of some amazing grace. The Ghost is circling the congregation
Boundaries are exploding. Lines once drawn disappear in a hail of wind. The sand is alive and talking
A Few Last Questions
Dancing alone is an art perfected in a dim lit room. The bottled air inoculates against intimacy and intoxicated memory
Something is between us, the eye of a needle, a bitter pill, a road with too many miles.
The grass is not emerald green. It is a thicker shade, more inviting. Welcoming as a field of poppies only more austere.
I remember tinted images yellow and stained in old wooden frames. The glass was scratched and wavy.
Soaked in grey light oily blue puddles shimmer on the platform. The train is late.
The Moonlight Sonata coaxes light through the window a warm glow is between us. Then air turns to ash and
I do not understand nature.
Cannot not match bird to song,
leaf to tree, petal to flower.
Too much learned at arm's length
the secondhand story that comes
from the TV or movies.
Out among the birdsong in all
its seasons I am confused,
out of my element, feigning