Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Ron Conway Mar 8
Northern California, early morning rain
Nestled in the grand sequoia,
Supine and bed-bound calm
Idyllic solitude for an
Avowed pluviophile
The petrichor caress the sense,
Creates a kind euphoria
To banish clinomania.
Arise, await the night and clear
Eyes star-cast, aurora dreaming
Serendipity is life
California Rain
Ron Conway Mar 3
Where creeps the backdoor maestro,
in your selectively disinterested brain,
lessons issued freely leave more questions,
made grander by solicitude and grace.
What of existence and eternal presence?
Posed like mannequins, your questions are

intoned in tones of childhood melodies.

Designs on your attention,
all claim the moral higher ground.
It seems that the naive attempts
to disambiguate the ancient texts,
serve only to cement a modern bias,
parting not the reeds of lemongrass's fakery,
parsing not the deeds of the felonious among us,
no quiet comprehension in the noise and messy chaos;

intoned in tones of childhood melodies.

Suppose a gift of kindness to yourself.
Embrace the finitude delusion.
Pretend that one day this will terminate;
in absence and in darkness will be peace.
Surrender to your ardent vernal mantra,
to gently row and row and row your boat,

intoned in tones of childhood melodies.
Bop Poem
Ron Conway Feb 19
She sings,
and with her tone
she knocks you down
and binds you with her vocal cords
and blinds your outward looking eyes.

She sings,
and from her throat
her own harmonic;
a euphony
of hitherto forgotten shades,
that bids you sleep,
...but sleep is doom.

She sings,
and in her song
a tender scream;
a plaintive wail
that bids you reach
and hold...
...there now
...there now
She Sings
Ron Conway Feb 16
When darkness speaks,
It says, the night is ever long;
But comes the dawn.
When speak the seas,
They say the storm is evermore;
But comes the calm.
Ron Conway Feb 5
A country, in turmoil, a long time ago
Sent all of its tyrants away.
The citizens suddenly freed from their woe
Were left in a state of dismay.

“Freedom”, the concept, was new to these folk
After all the abuse they'd been through
Oh yes, they were glad to be free of the yoke
But they didn't know quite what to do.

Then somebody said, “We need someone in charge
To make sure the trash is collected.
He needn't be more than a p'liceman at large;
Someone we all feel is respected.”

“But how do we choose” was replied in return
“In a way that is fair to us all?”
If only there could be a way to discern -
The answer was somewhat banal.

“We could all cast a vote for the one we like best -
But just how do we narrow the field?”
“We'll pick one from the east and pick one from the west”
Their destiny there-on was sealed.

Both of the candidates chosen were men
(This was long before folks were enlightened)
And both of the fellows knew how to pretend
And thereby the contest was tightened.

One of the guys felt that he should appeal
For a kinder and gentler state.
So he helped the downtrodden, and greased the loud wheel
In the hope that the folk take the bait.

The other guy saw that the hillbilly caucus
Outnumbered the saint wanna-be's.
His cunning campaign became vastly more raucous
As he worked on their fears and unease.

Now, it's not up to me to reveal who succeeded
As that would be cocky and rash.
Suffice it to say that they got what they needed -
But nobody picked up the trash.
satire Narrative
Ron Conway Feb 5
As all of human living
Is the brilliant, blinding flash
Of welder's arc,
One meagre life a single spark
In arching grace
Precise in structure
Art in form
And yet we are compelled to parse
And parse
And parse the parsing
To hours, days and years
To successes and to failure

Most will fall
To concrete floor
To glow and fade and die
And some by chance to quenching pail
To sound a raucous last goodbye
But one may find a life anew
Vicarious in having found
The recklessly discarded
Oily rag
Ron Conway Feb 5
Transcendental meditation
Redefines imagination
Scarcely an attentive slumber
From the world you disencumber

Portentous is the cold daydream
Constraining not the mindful stream
It just accentuates the strife
This paradox of conscious life
Next page