tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-56246092012-01-17T13:30:43.151-05:00<center><b>(Tokyo Is Easy)</b></center>Ron.http://www.blogger.com/profile/17003968251465131521noreply@blogger.comBlogger241100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5624609.post-509920369638221842011-12-14T05:44:00.001-05:002011-12-14T06:16:59.557-05:00

Curio Poetry (Inaugural Issue, Online) Dec 2011 By The Dozens He kills as many as he finds, throws them into the wheelbarrow. Their bloody eyes stare up at him in astonished adoration, freed at last from the earthly burn of air, dust in the lungs, not enough to eat ever, always running away from everything, terrified. They seemed to anticipate the fall of the ax, the swing of the hoe or the

Ron.http://www.blogger.com/profile/17003968251465131521noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5624609.post-84696247919895219112011-12-09T06:09:00.004-05:002012-01-17T13:29:44.784-05:00

Every Day Poets (Online) Dec 2011 (This poem is currently available exclusively at Every Day Poets.  Read it there; you won't be disappointed.)

Ron.http://www.blogger.com/profile/17003968251465131521noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5624609.post-87505744277025086032011-11-11T06:51:00.001-05:002012-01-17T13:30:43.159-05:00

Every Day Poets (Online) November 2011 (This poem is currently available exclusively at Every Day Poets. Read it there; you won't be disappointed.)

Ron.http://www.blogger.com/profile/17003968251465131521noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5624609.post-54934098319646819072011-04-13T06:19:00.003-04:002011-11-11T06:38:39.066-05:00

Front Porch Review (Online) April 2011 Under their wings is white: early in the morning, early in autumn, birds, perched on lines give new meaning to the words ‘the birds alight.’ Birds in search of one last brightness, one last dream of summer flight, gleam. Spied from below, the underside of wings is white, flares like the last flash of another summer, undone by autumn’s shortened light.

Ron.http://www.blogger.com/profile/17003968251465131521noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5624609.post-81739885356751972702011-03-18T04:45:00.003-04:002011-04-25T18:05:51.159-04:00

Four And Twenty (Online) March 2011    ...and, when they said good-bye, the salad tossed itself in disbelief, fine wine paled watery.

Ron.http://www.blogger.com/profile/17003968251465131521noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5624609.post-50305326562108346562011-02-11T11:36:00.005-05:002011-04-25T18:08:40.189-04:00

Fourteen Magazine (Print) (Great Britain) Feb 2011 --Previously Published (Online) at: Crescent Moon Journal (May 2005)-- 1. It's hard to find you gone tonight, outbound among the stars, and I wingless, without a song under a dime like moon look up from ice. 2. I did not dream, last night, the loose end would ravel. Your departure loomed. I held my breath while you slept,

Ron.http://www.blogger.com/profile/17003968251465131521noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5624609.post-21349520478740591812010-11-21T12:37:00.005-05:002011-04-25T18:44:22.489-04:00

AND/OR (3 pieces; Inaugural Issue) (pdf in November 2010; Print due in December) I Got Yer “Grumpy” Right Here, Pal I guess you’d be pretty grumpy, too if you shared a crackerbox cottage with six other chirpy little bastards, up every day at the crack of dawn with a merry Hi-Ho, Hi-Ho on their lips, off to work after nothing but a meager bowl of gruel, carrying pickaxes and a box of dynamite,

Ron.http://www.blogger.com/profile/17003968251465131521noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5624609.post-87690247785419645142010-09-20T22:15:00.002-04:002010-09-20T22:43:56.637-04:00

Read Write Poem NaPoWriMo Anthology (Online) Sept 2010 Breathless There is neither edge nor precipice; nor slide, nor knowable fall. There is only bottom. Lack makes itself known abruptly, a gasping loss. There is only nothing, suddenly. There is neither flight nor flying nor slipping away into airlessness; there is no drag or drain, no low warning, no looming alarm. There is only bottom and

Ron.http://www.blogger.com/profile/17003968251465131521noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5624609.post-54774436499166143882010-09-16T19:10:00.001-04:002010-09-16T19:15:07.802-04:00

Everyday Genius (online) September 2010 Payday In Grinsville Oh, I guess I could have done anything. The agency lets you try things out for up to thirty days. I considered being “The Time Fairy”; did broken watches for a while and that was cool, but the nights were pretty slow; not a lot of stops to make, but I had to lug the things around in a big sack. And people expected cash for alarm

Ron.http://www.blogger.com/profile/17003968251465131521noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5624609.post-20203612869588343982010-06-29T05:32:00.005-04:002010-07-06T14:01:29.346-04:00

IBPC (Online) June 2010 (Third Place, May Competition. Judged by Fiona Sampson) AFTER BALTIMORE (for fredda) Sometimes there was wine at night but there was never any money. I don’t remember much but coffee, hash on the roof at midnight and one time drunk on Harry’s street dancing in the rain. We pasted up the underground news. They paid us with rolling papers, incense, sacks of welfare rice.

Ron.http://www.blogger.com/profile/17003968251465131521noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5624609.post-60825644940868501302010-01-20T19:03:00.044-05:002010-07-12T08:50:25.634-04:00

Apparatus Magazine (Online) Jan 2010 False Start Maybe this is what happens. A man starts reading a story in the morning:                                                a woman leaves, leaving her laundry and saying goodbye to the neighbors as they load up a truck, preparing to leave the neighborhood forever. She goes to the store and overhears her husband’s girlfriend telling the clerk how

Ron.http://www.blogger.com/profile/17003968251465131521noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5624609.post-83040884855693063792009-09-01T19:59:00.003-04:002010-01-20T20:07:00.745-05:00

Troubadour 21 (Online) Sept. '09The Way She AsksI hear voices and sometimesI tell her that I’m hearing them and she says Nonsense, tells meI’m singing to myself again.She tells me that she’s neverknown me otherwise,loves me as I am, voicesno concern whatsoever. She says I seem happy enoughmost of the time, seemsometimes ready for a jig orsometimes, in the morning –even before coffee—she hears me

Ron.http://www.blogger.com/profile/17003968251465131521noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5624609.post-29963100285053929442008-12-24T06:30:00.005-05:002011-02-11T11:55:27.096-05:00

Every Day Poets (Online) Dec. '08 --Subsequently anthologized (Print), Best Of Every Day Poets (One), Jan 2011-- Outside The Inn There would, of course, have to be a star —as there always is— but only a single star, luminous beckoning above the merest shelter. Around the meager dwelling, its wattle daubed with ordinary midnight, there would of course be shepherds, nodding, and music of sheep

Ron.http://www.blogger.com/profile/17003968251465131521noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5624609.post-85110570116402134652008-11-28T05:55:00.007-05:002008-12-24T06:48:35.615-05:00

Every Day Poets Online (NOV '08)CriticHe likes to sayhe likes her likehe likes blueberrieson his cornflakesand he’s always quickto rave about the blueberries

Ron.http://www.blogger.com/profile/17003968251465131521noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5624609.post-42217600727927735522008-10-01T18:43:00.005-04:002010-08-28T13:45:10.377-04:00

The Orange Room Review Online (Oct '08) On Tour With The Percussives Every nook held its gong, its cowbell tabla, tamboura, tom-tom, conga, guiro and that was all we ever knew except for how the landscape scrolled past the tinted windows, lights in little houses in tiny towns well before dawn on the fringe of the city, no one up but us, not even the paperboys. We’d hear the rev-down, feel the

Ron.http://www.blogger.com/profile/17003968251465131521noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5624609.post-1482677362209673902008-01-02T20:03:00.005-05:002010-06-21T13:26:31.006-04:00

Stirring (Online) Jan '08The Great AwakeningOily America swims in a red seawhile we sleep. In the morning, the newsis grim; is no news, really; is only moreof what we have come to expect:the buffed and baritone correspondent,straight faced, numbly earnesttelling us Jim, the news death tonight deathfrom death this death city isdeath is all around us and we fear fearwe miss our mothers and

Ron.http://www.blogger.com/profile/17003968251465131521noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5624609.post-13308414525689679792007-11-17T19:08:00.001-05:002008-07-08T06:25:43.295-04:00

THE ANTHOLOGY OF NEW ENGLAND WRITERS (20th Edition) (PRINT) Nov '07(Editor's Choice; Robt. Penn Warren Free Verse Contest)Table For OneI never heard anyone shout so loudso softly. Barely a tabletop away I couldn’t hear a word she said but I could see him sitting as she spoke,could see his hands move from his lapto a clasp, almost as if in prayerbefore him, between them; could seehis face, and

Ron.http://www.blogger.com/profile/17003968251465131521noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5624609.post-41875605022655101582007-10-03T06:04:00.000-04:002007-10-03T06:07:56.369-04:00

EDGZ (#13) (Print) (October 07)WHERE TO GOIt doesn’t really matter, does it,once you’ve seen the Mall Of Americathe abandoned tennis courtwhere Robert Frost learned to play,no doubt enjoying the long volleyand scowling at any opponentselfish enough to serve up an ace;once you’ve walked down Elm Streetin someone else’s home townand seen that Elm Street looks like every other Elm Street, every

Ron.http://www.blogger.com/profile/17003968251465131521noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5624609.post-1140466272543358052006-02-20T15:06:00.002-05:002008-10-23T19:51:18.019-04:00

Crescent Moon Journal (Online) Feb '06(2nd place, Winter Poems Contest)Cold SnapOutside for obligatory photographs: ubiquitous head-shot, profile, three-quarter profile, bust. I stand between the battered, rusty plow, lost in a stand of spruce, and the house’s winter windows, nearly buried by blizzard. I squint and will be squinting forever, standing, frozen by the shutters. When I see myself,

Ron.http://www.blogger.com/profile/17003968251465131521noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5624609.post-1102133430170019972004-12-03T22:36:00.001-05:002008-07-08T06:29:42.430-04:00

The Country Mouse (Online) Dec.04Looking InFully banqueted,the nicotine outcastscavenges cigarettes poolsidewhile dregs of the partysip Tanquerays with tonicand linger over cheesecake.Nothing is as blue as the pool.The night, narcotic, welcoming,lengthens; spreads itself outbehind a buttery August moon.In the morning, huddledover coffee, everyone isblown dry by sunriseand smells like

Ron.http://www.blogger.com/profile/17003968251465131521noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5624609.post-1095760126734924702004-09-21T05:45:00.002-04:002009-01-25T10:41:15.256-05:00

THE COMSTOCK REVIEW (Print) Sept. 04Fallen AwayI don’t know when it happened;I let it all fall away. I let it fallon the long drive to work in the morningin the sunlight, let it fall crossingridge after jaded ridge, fallwith the glimpse of an unlikely hawkor a capture of crows, or the stackingof cordwood, the season’s final frost,fog on the hillside, or the flutterof a yellow kite in a midsummer

Ron.http://www.blogger.com/profile/17003968251465131521noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5624609.post-1092051351056299832004-08-09T07:23:00.003-04:002008-10-23T20:13:45.389-04:00

MiPO Online Aug. '04Beanman’s ParanoiaHungry as a jungle cat andloopy as a Chianti loonthe beanman and the wishy ladycome walking.The beanman's convincedthe librarian's out to get himbut the wishy lady says noit's just the moooooonmaking tiiiiiides inside his head.All the same, though,in the back of her mindthe wishy lady knows it’s true:you can never trust the librarian.Reading The

Ron.http://www.blogger.com/profile/17003968251465131521noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5624609.post-1059600975745339062004-07-30T17:36:00.013-04:002009-01-25T10:56:45.588-05:00

JOURNAL OF NEW ENGLAND WRITERS (PRINT) Nov 03(Honorable Mention; Robt. Penn Warren Free Verse Competition)SamsaraAlmost 20years later, I find the Buddha.I know him instantly. Each of us has aged,lugging around our bellies, and I, too, am bald.I see him through the window. Even at night,six horizons from home, even through a sheetof glass in sheets of rain, I know him instantly.I know how the

Ron.http://www.blogger.com/profile/17003968251465131521noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5624609.post-1059439853915663332003-07-28T20:50:00.000-04:002007-11-25T10:31:48.610-05:00

Mr. Procrastination Speaks:Everything begins tomorrow. Stand by.

Ron.http://www.blogger.com/profile/17003968251465131521noreply@blogger.com