Tinted Images
I remember tinted images
yellow and stained
in old wooden frames.
The glass was scratched and wavy.
They sat on a table next to a lamp
painted with naked cherubs.
The couch and chairs were covered in plastic.
I never asked why.
One day my father spilled his beer
no one panicked and I understood.
There were stories after dinner
with coffee and cigarettes.
I was young and don't recall them now.
We don't tell stories after dinner;
no one smokes anymore.
I have pictures in polished frames.
My couch is stained and the chairs are worn.
On a table next to the lamp
the one with naked cherubs
are the tinted images in the old wooden frames.
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poem by Ronald Shields
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Station
Soaked in grey light
oily blue puddles
shimmer on the platform.
The train is late.
A man shuffles his feet
paper folded under a
brown woolen arm.
The shine on his shoes
would dazzle
in proper light.
A woman searches her
purse -the fare is
in here somewhere.
Keys mimic the sound.
Her dress clings to mystery.
Children playing
the way children do.
Their innocence waning
the way innocence will.
The Porter checks his watch
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poem by Ronald Shields
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A Few Last Questions
Dancing alone is an art
perfected in a dim lit room.
The bottled air inoculates against
intimacy and intoxicated memory
confuses the day before and after.
Lovesick in the bathroom
the women go home without
tears or complaints.
Except the last one who
burns inside, red and molten
as you plunge headlong
into one last chance, one last dance.
The machine sucks at your blood.
Keeps you alive and does not cry
or lean over to caress your face.
While you sleep I light a cigarette
and try to take your place.
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poem by Ronald Shields
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Memories In The Old Brain
-the smell of water
a scent hanging in the air
a trail through parched, barren land
now greened by rain
in a time of plenty.
the taste of marrow
fresh from the cracked bone,
touched by a fire
that lights the way
to a time of plenty
the sight of a day
over savanna grass,
sight without mystery
without awe
or the art to feel the dawn
and see the light with a new eye
in a time of plenty
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poem by Ronald Shields
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The Weight
Against the day I am powerless
so I rise
to face it
in the mirror.
Finding
a vaguely
familiar face
I wash it,
shave it,
prepare it
for a world that will not see it.
The children are first off the mark.
They are young
and carry
less weight.
When does it change?
When will they feel
gravity as if for the first time?
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poem by Ronald Shields
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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.
Yes, she is a mother - of children and invention.
Takes them where ever she roams.
Along the way she is not just seen,
people take notice of Victoria Neale.
Because the true Nomad is rare and on the wane.
She walks between seasons
tracing the arc of the sun
where open sky invites all those who dare.
Where those who dare skip like stones on a marble pond.
She does not follow the migration.
The wake in the prairie grass is her own.
She is driven by the solution to mystery.
There is always time for a tale.
Her story grows taller by the year,
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poem by Ronald Shields
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Chirping
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.
It's a story that comes in pieces, chunks or ragged whole
cloth, though it can seem stitched into a tapestry, or
quilted by an Amish maiden fresh as this morning's hay
and full of lies.
It's a story that cracks my voice.
About the cost of freedom.
About these wounds in my arms
bleeding secrets I once kept,
staining my bones like a Maori tattooing ceremony.
It is a story about blind alleys.
About mountains and trails meant for goats.
About walking in light and shade.
Learning to live in the light
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poem by Ronald Shields
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An Angry Poem, Because So Many Flags Are At Half Staff
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.
So do not ask me why so many flags are at half staff. I will not give you the answer you want to hear. I will not mock the dead with vainglorious praise, Glory Glory Hallelujah! They are the mothers, fathers, sons and daughters who paid the price of Blood and I will honor them with the truth.
poem by Ronald Shields
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Moonlight Sonata
The Moonlight Sonata
coaxes light through the window
a warm glow is between us.
Then air turns to ash and
we close our eyes.
Once when we could still see,
there were hands between us.
One a teacup, the kind saved
for the careful company
the other a nesting bird
enveloping, gentle, weightless.
I could feel in your arms
steel bands that hummed
with precision over a vast
network of machinery,
driving one day into the next.
The smell of heat hung on you,
white heat, blast furnace heat.
Skin seared to ochre, a badge,
medallion, a sign of your time.
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poem by Ronald Shields
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In So Many Words
She pulls on white stockings,
steps into spongy white shoes.
Except for the crest her uniform
is white. Not cold or harsh, the
color that keeps you at arm's
length, but a careworn shade
that says here is some one to
comfort you. He pulls on a
white undershirt, covers it
with a blue shirt, his name
over the pocket. The pants
are the same shade, made
of a material impervious to
labor. There is silence.
Not the quiet before a storm,
a quietude, a soundless
conversation about the last
45 years. About children
grown and starting their
own conversations. About
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poem by Ronald Shields
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