The Voice I Remember
I remember the voice. Quiet,
soft as a caress on the back of my neck,
coating my heart and mind
the way dust settles
when the air goes still.
A landslide of light
swallowing everything in its path,
leaving all undisturbed, cool
and dressed to face the sun.
I remember the way his voice carried my name
like a prince to the throne.
The voice was strength and calm in the same note
-the last note he ever sang.
I remember the voice. I hear that note
and I know the way home.
poem by Ronald Shields
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Nature
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
disinterest, not knowing where
to start. Reading poems about
milkweed, poppies, or a thing
as lovely as a tree does
somewhat perhaps fill the gaps,
or leave me empty
-for what have I missed?
What will I never know?
poem by Ronald Shields
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Lakeside
The grass is not emerald green.
It is a thicker shade, more inviting.
Welcoming as a field of poppies
only more austere.
The single tree in rustling witness stands
to Nature's indifferent sculpting of the land.
The ground is cool, moist with anticipation
-a land of milk and honey, as they say.
The barony of spring whets the last of winter's embers
preparing summer's empire by degrees.
The breeze disappears
following the arc of the sun
and I am one step closer to the water's edge.
poem by Ronald Shields
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Take Care
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.
They will clamor for truth, justice, hope - all the virtues
held so dearly at arm's length.
Take care Mr. Wizard.
Take care to tread lightly where hearts and minds are concerned.
Take care to speak softly, quiet as fog and clear as the call to prayer.
Take care, take care.
poem by Ronald Shields
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Dust to Dust
The sky is parched.
The landscape is scorched.
Brown and gray hang in the air
suspended on shimmering wire.
At night the coyotes lament its passing.
At daybreak life melts into what remains of shadow.
Cool slips from memory
water abandons the mirage
green is consigned to myth.
Soon memory, mirage, myth
will lie face down in the streambed
swallowing the dust where it all began.
That night the coyotes shall remain silent.
The Earth will breathe relief,
and wait for the return of morning rain.
poem by Ronald Shields
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Promise Land
Boundaries are exploding.
Lines once drawn disappear
in a hail of wind.
The sand is alive and talking
telling a tale of triumphant woe.
There is, or was, a wall
where I once pressed my forehead
against an unforgiving book written
in the script of heaven's rage.
Now in a temple, in a city, on the hill
a new history is foreseen and written by martyrs.
There are new psalms to sing and
mountains to climb, seas to part,
valleys to walk through
where shadows fall away
and the land is full of promise.
poem by Ronald Shields
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The Fall
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
or the endless curve at the base of a spine
inviting the hand or head to seek asylum.
The fall from grace can be subtle, a flower
following the sun or sudden as the jerk of the rope.
I never learned what caused his fall,
something simple, a mere turn of the screw
or complex as the port de bras.
For me it was the arch of an eyebrow
and blindness in a careless moment.
poem by Ronald Shields
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Lament For My Religion
How to be guiltless
when penance is the sin.
I am wary of a Redeemer,
A Nazarene claiming all souls,
even as he hangs on a cross
-of his own will-
each nail a sin
every puncture a corruption,
an indictment
for grace not freely given.
And the tongue of fire,
failing to ignite
the coldest of hearts
-casting its light
where radiance already abides.
Is it a light that blinds
and casts shadows on the wall?
Or does it show the true sign of the Beast,
the true color of Joseph's coat,
the kingdom with its fortunate souls
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poem by Ronald Shields
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Ci Oyate
The savage stick
does not come softly,
it is swift,
full of vengeance
in the white hand of justice.
The ravenous maw
spits steel,
turns thunderous herds
into bleached memory;
for tongues, for skins,
for the sport of kings.
Comes the march,
for death,
for the red day
passing into a long night
where lost languages fester
in spirits raw and dull.
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poem by Ronald Shields
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We Know How Much A Man Contains
Seeds and miracles
A mechanical spirit
The Father, The Mother,
sons of steel, daughters of the revolution.
The will to pause at dawn, in the mist, or ruins
to toast, sing, genuflect
and not know why.
Pity, like some thing in the street.
Pride like some thing in the mirror,
refracted by a lover.
A stick to carry remorse, regret.
Old rags sour with age.
Virgin wool pristine with the memory of youth.
Layers of knowledge, upon knowledge, upon knowledge
-mortar between bricks laid piecemeal jointless
in endless echoing vaults;
and in these recesses
where nothing can touch, light, or hold sway
can we know how much a man contains?
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poem by Ronald Shields
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