Poems by Ron Baron

           Quick              
 
 
 In less than an instant
 the fate of a man
     in split-seconds can be decided forever:
 
 State of maternity, birth for eternity.
 life in the womb
     or it's death. . . . . .by abortion,
 
 "To have and to hold"
 or so bold in the midnight,
      upholding 'the vows' or debauching their reverence,
 
 Wealth of a life-time -
 flipping a card -
      a hard life in prison by squeezing the trigger,
 
 Future of nations
 insane annihilations,
      pressing 'the button' or pulling a lever.
 
 Thoughts blow our souls
 to the winds in an instant -
     bearing 'a cross' or 'Cain's mark' . . . .to Omega ! 
 
 
 Regeneration
 As leaves turn brown in autumn,
 hastening forth to winter's death -
 So my soul begins to darken,questioning . . . 
 will there be a springtime ?
 Will I awake and resurrect
 as lilies burst from last year's graves ?
 Can my mustard seed of faith
 become in springtime . . . . . . an Eternal Tree ?
 
 
 Twilight 'til Death
 When daylight fades beyond 
 the westward heaven's earthly rim, 
 and darkness covers man's endeavors,
 all must time in slumber spend.
 Creatures hurrying, scurrying homeward,
 seeking burrow, nest, and den,
 are finding shelter 'til tomorrow
 sunrise lights the sky again.
 Darkening shadow's reeling eastward,
  covering hills and vales and dales,
 absorb the last of twilight's colors -
 dismal, dull, as grey prevails.
 Stellar knives pierce earth's dark shroud;
 the curvature illumined by moonlight -T
 hose who slumber not, both stalk
 and become the prey of midnight !

                  Black On White

 My words are often stones that crush a soul,
 or flowing fields of flowers that bring a smile.
 At times their message heals a broken heart -  
 becoming swords that sever love from hate.
 
 Thus quill in hand its nib flings fire-y darts.
 I cannot know the mark which they may find,
 nor if the target they may chance to pierce,
 will bring reward or some remorseful curse.
 
 Yet searching in my soul I thus draw forth:
 black flowing ink to fill white paper scrolls.
 The dark of blackness then more clearly viewed
 becomes a living word when shown in light.
 
     THE VOICE
 
 I can feel within me now a burning tide
      that  swells  from  deep  inside;
  it yearns  to spew  a  flow of  words
      that  sometime  seem  absurd.
 
 Can it be that what I must write down,
   are only  thoughts that  bring a  smile or frown 
        to those who someday  read -
  or is a deeper meaning there to heed ?
 
 Could it be, this voice must now be heard, before
  the life that gives it breath is 'Ņer,
       and death consumes  the passage;
  swallows the unwritten message ?
 
 Yet, I can't resist the feeling:
  that the voice within demands revealing.
       Somehow I'm compelled to write
  the words it speaks throughout the day and night;
 
 So to the task I labor  on. . . . . .not knowing
  into what the meaning may be growing;
     yet it isn't I who guides the pen. . . . .
   It is the mystery of: . . .
    THE  VOICE  WITHIN!    	

 
     By Ron Baron

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