Ron is a 64 year old retiree living in Salt Lake City, Utah. He is the father of one son, and an 8 year old granddaughter.
The Cloud Catcher
Wake up momma and papa too wake up sister Maggie your dreaming is through send a cryer down street and alley bid all sleepers they dare not dally Tell Mister Jeeper in his hot air balloon aloft bid folks gather and none too soon squire and knight and peasant alike send all afoot down way and pike
send them to see a thing so stupendous witness an event tremendous momentous for today is the day of manifest with ever much zeal not a jot of jest a thing that will capture, a snatcher, a batcher for I have invented the first cloud catcher
on the end of this pole is a coarse wicker bucket when extended skyward is designed to pluck it now trapped within is a fluffy white cloud liberated hence to wow the crowd
but wait, when returned, only droplets remain the start of a storm the beginnings of rain never mind folks it’ll need some revising alterations modifications perhaps resizing Don’t be disappointed nor gloomy nor glum for other inventions in the future will come
perhaps a gizmo to abscond with the gold at the end of a rainbow as the myth foretold maybe a contraption that warns with a sound whenever faeries or sprites come around it could be a gadget that flies through the air that whisks you away to a forest somewhere whatever it is it’ll be so amazing robust, portentous awe raising and blazing
Snowflakes the size of butterflies float lazily downward until they light on the dormant grass, now mottled white and green, but soon to be covered with a soft gauze that comforts the landscape with shades of pearl. Nothing escapes the storms brush, not the worn patch beneath the sycamore where only last summer you sat, back against the solid trunk, bare legs stretched before you on the cool shaded dirt. Not the base of the weathered wood fence now lined with withered and desiccated flowers that catch the fallen leaves and renders them motionless save for slight rustling when the cold autumn breeze unnerves them. Not the pumpkin patch, now harvested and jack-o-lanterned, the long vines difficult to tell from the soil, where that sometimes-truculent tabby hunter crouches patiently in wait for a summer fattened mouse. Not the sills of the two dormers that sit like drooping eyes on the deep pitched roof of the cottage; the ivy that climbs the northern wall is bare now, holding only the wilted blue berries that steadfastly cling to naked stems. Not the boughs of the evergreen that stands proud, still green amongst the barren deciduous, but its delight tempered knowing that it does not participate in autumn’s show of lights. The amber glow of the yard lamp is softened and the distant sound of laughing children at play building snowmen is crisp yet muted. Dark banks of clouds like ghost ships glide past the gray winter matte that hides the winter sun as it sets below the invisible horizon. Rest now under down quilts as the fire rages ocher and warm. Soon spring will rise and these scenes will be memories within a fond dream.
Winter Gives Way
When will this long winter end? When will it grow tired of obscuring the night where the vast flurry of light no longer spins because it can no longer be seen? When will it again reveal stars that tumble from the sky and fling themselves white hot across the void? And the moon, still eager to ply its sexual power, waxes and wanes, its light available for no earthbound dancers, not inspiring romance nor conspiring to madness. A cold heartless wind animates the barren branches of a tree that remains nameless for want of livery. Wild beasts with faltering steps search languidly beneath the fallen snow for that which will sustain. A man, too borrowed against, sits hunched and swaddled, his back to a meager fire that never raged. The hands of a clock spin but do not move, waiting for winter to lift before again marking time. A hound, napping on a dirty rope rug, lifts its eyes but not its head, looking first at the man, then for lack of motivation, at the clock, as if it understood its meaning. In the distant night a wolf howls, its cry muffled by clouds and darkness. But morning comes. Icicles hanging from eaves, once unwilling to give up form or function, begin to come apart, losing drops of near frozen water at their endings. A sliver of light attempts to hold forth against the grayness and announce the coming of morning. Sparrows, once made taciturn by the numbing cold, chirp at these slight beginnings. Clouds, although still abundant, separate slightly to allow patches of cold blue sky to peer into the divide. From these sparse soundings will the music of the equinox spring forth. The earth will again become erotic and pregnant and flush with life of every imagination.
When we were children, we believed that shadows and fogs were ghosts and vaporous apparitions that floated about tombs and mausoleums, and that werewolves and hellhounds lurked in the moonlight and mist, lying in wait for foolhardy prey. Elves, faeries, sprites, and brownies cavorted and gamboled in the moon drenched woods from dusk to twilight, while at midnight, goblins and gremlins slinked about near moss-covered headstones in mizzled old graveyards. A coal black Grimalkin on the prowl in a dank lonely alley; an owl with eyes that glow silver asks who dares cross its path. In dark pine forests witches dance seductively around a fire with glowing embers that float skyward to mingle with the starlight, while warlocks look on with lust waiting to chase them to a soft bed of ferns to consummate the summer solstice. Crumbling church belfries become home to nocturnal creatures, lizards, bats, and rats. Children tell stories of ringing midnight bells, but this can’t be, for the yoke no longer swings and the clapper too rusted to clang against the rotting metal. And the clergy are all ghosts with no heads, and the groundskeeper rides a horse with two.
your clock hands point to forever as the twilight vanishes anew a cover is placed on a gilded cage to silence your cockatoo
the refulgent moon is apt to shine if the coquettish clouds demure photos and figures on darkened shelves are likely to peak and leer
gossamer curtains are now apparitions animated by zephyrs tease candle flame will flit about also moved by these
you say it's time for loving I say passion will reign it's possible our beads of sweat can’t slip between the twain