Author: ron

I HAVE TIME to sleep a few hours each night,
Time to play two-year-old and five-year-old games,
Time to earn a living, attend church, support my communities;
Time for cooking, eating, dishes,
And time to admire pages, white as newest snow.

A little time to read from ink-stained sheets,
More time to answer the beeps, clicks, whistles
Of devices at my belt, my fingertips, in my kitchen.
Time for laundry (process, not event),
Time to plant and feed and water and mow
But not to sully pages, still white as newest snow

Pickups, dropoffs, diapers, playgrounds, movies;
Depression, voices, chemicals, and tests;
Movies, castles, wizards, bunnies, Peeps;
The minister of magic seven days a week.
Still friends await correspondence
And I stare longingly at pages white as newest snow

Tidying, sweeping, vacuuming, mopping,
Backyards, museums, zoos, lakes;
Banks, bills, timesheets, licenses;
Distant family tech support;
Groceries, clothing, presents, treats --
Time for these and so much more
And journal pages white as newest snow

— Ron – 11 Jun 2007

It is not my place; it was his. I honor memory. Pretzels that distracted while pizza cooled are gone, churros now. The rest remains: lines where I held him ’til arms gave out, then put down to run on mischief-making legs; straw dispenser attacked with single-minded furor, scoring many before I bade him stop; soda fountain where I juggled food and lifted with still-weary arms, napkins and bills of change blowing away. Or left at table with pizza, pretzel, and sundae while I ran for sodas and crucial napkins, fearing ill would befall in the seconds out of sight. Next door they sell tires; he crawled through the donut holes, got stuck where I could not reach without rolling half a dozen from the rack, our hands black and smelling of vulcanized rubber. Memories. Reality stolen by time. The air is chill, the flavors not so rich. Why have I come. I regret the straw-scolding. I remember to cherish the fleeting now.

— Ron – 16 Feb 2006

like a glass of port wine
born with a kiss of sun
and a spray of slightly salty breeze
plucked away, crushed,
strengthened in a musty stew
filtered, clarified, and casked
eight thousand days to grow
in depth, complexity in quiet
while the world rages round about
only then to land a place, perhaps,
at the end of a first time movieandadinner
date, first sip, evocative
sweet and sad and speaking of promise...
but no second sip to come
the journey of life, of two decades
culminating in a sudden expected twist
into a different urn with no way of
knowing if the ancient drops can
find their destiny again

— Ron – 03 Oct 2005

where it really happens. craving distraction. 
wishing for a word, a touch. so desperate that 
even a television voice would be welcome. but 
this, this is where it happens. tidying, 
cleaning, attending to old obligations delays 
the inevitable -- dark despair and glimpses of 
beauty will crawl out from where they have taken 
refuge in a busy life, a lathe of solitude curling 
and gouging away things important, 
things unnecessary, leaving a remnant

— RonRisley – 19 Aug 2005