Biography of Ross Lakes
BA Purdue University, Rhetorical and Mass Communication Theory/Television Production.
MA Ball State University, Public Speaking
Currently Instructor of Public Speaking, Business Communications and Introduction to Communications on Downtown Campus of Pima Community College, Tucson, Arizona.
Ross Lakes Poems
The A.D.D. And The Other
He makes her coffee, the way she likes, While the other sleeps,
A pink burnoose, or Peach perhaps, but always matching Chiffon slacks and tops and shoes. She wears them on her morning walks;
On an Indiana summer’s eve, Wind and water can twist itself into a monster one night, And the next run its fingers like a lover through your hair.
The farms and factories are filled with Unwritten books, the Bars with unrecorded stars.
She’s mine! And with the simple twist of a simple, metal tab She flies! And even the flight of jets is not the same.
When The Illusion Fails
My front porch muse makes Deep pools from puddles. Living at the tip of the
Little Foxes Spoil Vines
He accumulates, in increments, Tiny bits of wasted time: he Remembers he forgot the keys, Reviews the menu seven times,
Like pulling on a stalk of wheat till Roots and soil come up together on a hot day. Your head is hot, the air is hot. Everything Alive or not is hot
The Poet Proves
“If your father and I had never met, you wouldn’t even be! ” That used to bother me a bit, to think that some small twist of fate, Some feckless little turn of head, some glint of eye or casual wit Had linked my parents long ago by matrimonial ring and bed,
At seven, they said I had to blend Half water with half cream. But Vo5’s “No-Mix-Formula” Was only 29 cents more.
The Point Of Reclamation
Her skin was darker than his, Tanned by a different sun; younger, Softer. She drew More meaning from his than
Under The Sun
Some Pit-dweller kid, I wonder, Did he congregate with other kids Around the most popular pit in town, Saying cool pit-things in
Chronicling the advance from the walls of a castle full of pictures, where no notion ever dawned, loose ends left dangling,
A pink burnoose, or
Peach perhaps, but always matching
Chiffon slacks and tops and shoes.
She wears them on her morning walks;
And spinning, skirting her profile,
The same, pink parasol
To block the glare.
Pastels? To go, I guess, with