Ron is a poet, a short story writer and an artist. 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 590 poems, 471 short stories and 101 pieces of art in over 178 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 firstname.lastname@example.org, 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
Hair and Outrage
Hidden by trees and questions of silhouette, the beauty remaining flaxen and fascinating in silky vision, sinned, raging by the repute of an outcry, by the wonder of a passport in remedy for all the ails of rage. She forced his appetite for perfect ceremony. She reached, finished and combed the corn silk before her expectant smile, the grin of a makeshift wish.
She gently lulled the seemly endurance of truth for the angel of supposed caste, in bond without the fallen shine of success, of excellent division, between day and night, love and anger, she thoroughly constrained and sensed the renown of a deceitful rage, careless, reflected by the demon in her view. She traced the shape of her need and prayers. He hovered and dribbled in black seas of lichen and moss, in the dark alleys of woe and desire beyond the wont of mortal men, and the hate he tended in great gardens of blossoming tears was full in bloom and nurtured angry rebuke. The whispers of a conquering demon and the lies of a thousand nightmares unbidden. She found faith in the reason for her existence in the houses sent forth by the undoing of his fear.
The benevolent knowledge of an independent seed the labor of an absurd schism and free will………even in symbiosis.
The fullness of the day was necessary to the ecology of Avion; Axion concealed his disdain with the piercing ache of sunshine showers and daffodil dreams. Avion whistled and hummed an old gospel hymn and Axion cringed. The vaguely occult twinkling of darkness touched axions lips as he muttered a curse. Avion slapped Axions hand in a high five gesture. “Cheer up Axion, it’s a beautiful day.”
Axion grimaced as his teeth ground in irritation. When Avion bent down to pluck a rose from the gentle rambling rose bush the sound of a blue jay screamed overhead. Axion bent in synchronous compliment to Avion. Axion caught the misty bouquet of Attar as Avion waved the perfect blossom under his nose. Avion smiled, “Come on brother, be good.” Axion chuckled and smiled back sheepishly. As they carried the newspaper into the house, hand in hand, the postal matron drove by and stared with a bemused fascination. The Siamese twins, the pair, one body and two very wonderfully functioning heads, turned and waved at the mail car as she drove by.
She wore it in stubborn perfect poise; silver and ruby meticulous, the amulet was in the shape of a cross. Smooth and eternal in it’s wisdom, it protected Phoenix Scarlet from the suppositions of death. A desire in glaring bloodstone jewels and sanctity, she fingered the cross and sighed in reverie. The requited exclamation of life, Phoenix gripped the amulet as death made it’s
case to her impressive cause. “Forward Phoenix, it’s been over two hundred years, aren’t you curious to move forward?” death said flirtatiously.
“Nay,” she replied, “ my place is in life.” the sound of wild gypsy rhythms filled the air, violins in furious fray, like crocodilian enticers to doom.
“ But what of your woodland greens and your family, they all await you Phoenix.” death coaxed.
“No sir, I prefer to be with the living.” Death sighed and said,
“You’ll change your mind eventually, for the purpose of life is to transcend the breech.” death explained.
“Even so, I refuse you.” she said curtly, “Now be gone.”
Death left and Phoenix prayed to the heavens with clear conscience. Phoenix vowed vigilance and renewed her covenant with the angels as the amulet renewed her and it’s purpose.
In Praise of Sunrise
One, as well as the other, in radical fame, surreptitious fame, a secret in moldy piles of palm frond and moss. They lay side by side in chains shattered, free, free to the glory of god and morning-tide brilliance. He discovered innocence in the gentle caress of warm thoughts and sparrow song. She stirred safe, his breath, the soul of his trail, the essence of his will. They were disguised in earth and vapors of passion. Hidden from the beasts, hidden from the legends of conferring consumption.
They lay beneath the scrub palm and spears of brilliance pierced the silent escort and umbrage of vines swaying, pines and pine bough. The beasts had traded in suggestions of blood lust without qualm. Hunting, screaming, needing the blood of angels and devoted desire. They had moved on in broken angry whispers of frustration, he gracefully bequeathed the affections of love on his mate, claws flexing fur bristling she sighed and howled quietly.
“The vampires,” she asked as he lapped her cheek, “The vampires.”
“Gone.” He responded with a toothy grin. They stretched and shivered. The testimony of sunshine and pale moon glow filled their request for bond, bond to saffron skies and endless fields of wheat.
More Than Four Hundred
Rey Tribe downed the viscous glass of blood with a relish abandon rivaling the needs of a starving peasant. The walls of the room were a thick gray brick and motor covered with Persian tapestries from his errant youth. The strawberry stain coating his lips marked the coming of the four hundred and the rule that would pervade the province perhaps even the entire country, possibly the world.
Rey read the passage from the book “Nocturne”.
“By the demons roost and the will of what’s
Bought by the silver of a dead man’s troth,
We convoke and conjure the four hundred
For the promise of a kings desire to
Rule the realm of man and beast,
From lesser to least!”
Rey finished the glass of blood and looked to the wash basin in the corner of the room. She lay there, her life blood leaking from the open wound in her neck. She had been a virgin brought to him by his secret guard. Licking his lips he whispered, “Yer a tasty morsel for a future king my love.” Smiling he waited for the four hundred.
In the end Rey was overwhelmed by the four hundred demons he had conjured. They pulled out his entrails and ate his eyes as he screamed the screams of the damned. The kingdom fell to darkness and smoke, a hundred years of slavery unto the demons rule.
One day in hell Rey spied a great oak, longing for his youth he climbed it, near the top he slipped, the smoke and darkness of hell was his undoing for he did not see his precarious height. Rey fell to the ground in a heap and suddenly the land, the kingdom was blessed by light, the four hundred returned to hell where Rey lay by the tall oak. In the end they would test him for the better part of an eternity.
Near the edge, the outer boundary of time Rey pondered his fate as fires ravaged him, “If only I hadn’t slipped, if only I hadn’t called the four hundred.” he whispered as he was seared from top to bottom.