Ron is aspiring to become established as a poet and a short story writer. He has written 102 books of poetry over the past several years and 18 novels: He has been submitting his work for the past two and a half years. He is thrilled by acceptance. He is always looking for an audience. He has published 550 poems, 407 short stories and 89 pieces of art in over 166 periodicals, books and anthologies. He has been accepted in England, Australia, Canada, Japan and Thailand. He loves to write and offer an experience to the reader. He is a member of The American Poet’s Society as well as The Isles Poetry Association and The Dark Fiction Guild. His art is viewable on Facebook under email@example.com, you just click on profile and look under photo albums. He hopes you enjoy His work.
Website- Ronnie.Weebly.com (Swamplit)
Website- E-zine Ethrealsouls.blogspot.com
Website- E-zine Fathermostdream.blogspot.com
A Chanting Rant
“An Ancient Parable”
He employed the souls of sainted office, hodgepodge foretelling and costumed host. A song in tune with the spirits of appeasing need and generous fortune was what he desired, “ lead to gold.” he whispered to the gray lump of metal, “Lead to gold!” He inhaled imagining appetites of greed and binding gifts of wealth, he licked his parched lips and sang,
“Shallow shelves of dancing beasts
And nervous tales of ancient feasts,
I offer the tale of sever slim agin rich
And Mary Grim, laughing he said the secret
Shame. Straightforward and in countries
Of declared agent renowned flame and dusty
Saffron lanes. He bid his love by the angels above,
To give her divine will to the lords of ill in exchange
For golden resident gain and to tame the
Leaden thrill O gold turned in
Revolutions for loves sweet evolution.
Give me yer gold fer the spirit of
Loves old, beauty and princess of silk,
In seductive thirsts and complexions of milk.
Slim sowed and reaped in yellow shine
O gold for this band of old.”
He tampered with the mound of lead and in an instant died, dust and bone in expectation of gold for the lady the spirit chosen by god, delivered by the promise of gold for the depth of imperfect inequity.
*A dollop of wont for a dash of wicked, also begat by the intentions of the devil.
The distance between hymns of primal myth and the vespers of his evening benediction was often the difference between draggled misery and reverent exhilaration. Cam Initio was a mystic of netherworld wonder in fabulous force. The rumor was that he could even raise the dead. It was not relevant that he was responsible for perpetrating the rumor or the subtle slight of gossip in the rumor, suffice it to say that Cam had once roused the concerns of a once drunken purveyor of the drink to an almost conscious level of existence.
To raise the dead, substance and secondhand life he thought , tantalizing revivals from the silent moments of death and the bliss a new dawn. He flipped one of the Taro cards over and the truth of a mystic revelation was unveiled; “The World” the card read, a world of life and death, fortune, fate and tales of rare precedent. To raise the dead, not some drunken oaf from the county tap, but to resurrect the flesh Cam thought. It was a bit like reading Taro, palms and tea leaves. Living with ghosts, ghouls and phantasms of taboo and admitted forbidden passage. It was a shaded talent that Cam would soon excel in, a candle to the myth and misery of past lives, loves and the adversity of universes, conduits in carefully interposed expressions of fear and love. Cam began reading the cards, resurrecting the dead so to speak with the fortune of the morrow and portents unbidden, unsoiled by past failures in chance. He would read and this time it would count for the wont of an unseen force availing the spirits of the newly alive.
Halloween Tea and Jasmine Incense
Hidden amongst the rows of ancient houses, tumble down and ramshackle, lay the tiny abode of Stewart Sparks and his thirteen cats. The perception was that Stewart was insane and in some semblance of convulsive madness. The truth was, in fact, Stewart was an amazing liver of life and all it had to offer.
The tiny kitchen smelled of jasmine incense and the table was set for tea, Halloween tea and boney skeleton cookies. Served in perfect portion, “One for you and one for me, darling spirit.” he whispered in loving calm craving. The jasmine incense burned with an orange glowing tendril of mist and smoke, the aura was perfect and the ambiance was a gentle coquet in the rapture of what would be, what had to be. Stewart sang and danced in desires of elder need and Halloween celebration. The air became a thick veil of gossamer webs and the sky above Stewarts house turned a blazing pumpkin orange, the figure of a dream came to life before his delighted eyes. “Greetings and guffaws, lights and laws, may the spirit of All Hallows Eve be with yer soul and spirit, as ye hear it, be young at heart and may you start the youth of a new day in this, the Halloween way!” He sang and shouted.
Stewart fell to the floor and when he awoke he was in the cradle of youth, vigorous and enchanted by the phantasms of Halloween ghost.
True to this day he is often seen in the guise of an old man trick of treating in gleeful harmony with the nights wonder. The legend of Stewart Sparks declares that if you see him on All Hallows Eve look deep into his eyes and perhaps you’ll find a measure of youth by the glee of a child’s whisper and the cry of tiny Halloween adventurers in costumed array with the evening sky and the dream that is the substance of old St. Sparks and candy corn sweet.
A cross hung in reflective whispers of devotion near the front of the tiny church. A moment of hesitant chanting prayer filled the wood paneled walls. In concealed knowledge the minister arranged the communion wafers and took a sip of the sacred wine. His stomach burned and churned in protest but years of training told him that a sip, a sip for now, of wine would calm his frayed nerves.
The tranquil caste of mid-day sunshine seeped in puddles of multicolored light through the stained glass windows. The church was usually locked but he had forgotten today and an audience of one sat watching him tidy the small enclave. The minister of peace, god and holy absolution turned to face the lone parishioner. “It’s time Edward.” the demon whispered. Edward Pepper looked at the beast, the archfiend and god of the underworld. Winged scarlet with long curling horns he sat in brimstone smolders and embers from the darkest depths of hell; his eyes were the worst and Edward avoided the ebony orbs of shadow as he genuflected near the alter.
“It’s time to end this farce.” the demon said in a grating voice of screams and tortured suspiration. Edward considered the demon for a moment, mortality wasn’t the worst thing he owned. He had lived in the shadow of the demon for three hundred years and here he was expecting payment for those extra years. Edwards laughter echoed in the asylum for a moment before he spoke to the demon, “ I have a covenant with god now demon, “ he began, and this is god’s house.” The demon sighed and waved a claw dismissing Edwards statement.
“You have a covenant with me first Edward.” Edward shook nervously and in creeping symmetry with fear. “Do you believe your farce Edward?” Edward prayed silently and in earnest imploring god to help. “Come on Eddie.” The demon held his hand out. Edward clenched the gold and silver crucifix tightly as he stumbled toward the demon.
The demon took Edwards hand and screamed. A plume of smoke drifted up from the demons talon. Edward laughed and said, “Go to hell……!” The demon rubbed his blistered palm and grinned back at him with an ancient grimace of hate. “Well Eddie, I guess our pact is finished.” with a flourish he disappeared in to a cloud of mist and smoke. Edward sat in one the church pews near exhaustion. His hair was bleached white and his face lined with a myriad of wrinkles, three hundred years worth. He took a labored breath wishing for god’s angels. Soon thereafter, they took him leaving an ancient tattered shell behind.
Blood and Spoiled Hamburger
Cold in bouquet, the final swallow of brandy didn’t cure his craving for blood. The package of hamburger was old, dripping, sodden, spoiled blood. On a bad day he’d chew a piece of raw steak or hamburger for the juice. He felt sluggish, his reflexes bypassed by an angry empty wont. For the love of warm sea salt and mossy spring, eternal he thought as he dreamed of pulsing arteries and coppery malt.
His spine tightened when the doorbell rang. He pictured Avon ladies and vacuum cleaner salesman in full blooming acceptance. Drink of us they sang, drink of our essence, our passionate cherry stain and our raspberry wine, come drink.
He answered the door in a hopeful flourish only to discover the shifting shape of his girlfriend. She was, in fact, a shifting dealer of countenance, a shape shifter by birth and her features changed with each passing moment. He let her in and explained his unbidden thirst. She paused to ponder this for an instant then offered her upturned wrist to his waiting lips.
He drank in greedy gulps until she pulled her wrist back, “Enough!” she said as she pushed him back. She went into the kitchen and yelled to the living room, “Did you eat this hamburger hon, it’s spoiled?” He replied shyly and self consciously, Yes, just a little bit darling.”
Later he became sick with food poisoning and she would have to secret him to a doctor, saving his life.
After he was cured they had Champaign and steak, “delicious.” he said between bites.
“It is scrumptious.” she replied as the Champaign bubbles tickled her nose. “And to think……,” he said “I nearly missed this moment with you because of spoiled hamburger.”
“I have to keep an eye on you every second hon.” she said tapping her plate.
The remedy was a simple matter for Sgt. Windhook, the simplicity of it was just that easy. Safeguards in shadow, an inmate in courts of confinement and faraway, at arms length and by a thousand miles of steel. The miracle of seasoned isolation wore the sanctity of the sergeants’ safe haven, secure, looked up and undeviating. The Psy Research Facility was sponsored by Vermont Horizons Inc., also known as Telemetry Visions Corp. and in retrospect, the Bastille. Sgt. Windhook watched the vine, the wine of countless parishioners and researchers and more importantly the purveyors of a $465.00 paycheck.
He danced in the fluorescent lights of the ten by ten cell. The vine was a young man in his twenties shorn with a buzz cut and piercing dark eyes. He saw Windhook peering in at him and he hooted, “YYYYYEEEEEEHHHHHAAAAAAWWWWWWW!.” Windhook grimaced and watched as the vine concealed his face with cupped hands, a moment later he was looking at the reflection of his own face. The vine growled and in spontaneous ascertation manifest the face of a wolf. Sgt. Windhook staggered back from the tiny window glass and gasped, “Oh my god!” continuing down the row of cells he made a point of ignoring the howls coming from the vines cubicle. Sgt. Windhook wondered and contemplated the strength of the steel doors as he finished his round.