Ron. Lavalette

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Ron. is primarily a poet living in Vermont's Northeast Kingdom, land of the fur-bearing lake trout and the bilingual stop sign. From his front yard, he could easily throw a stone into Canada but has learned, from bitter experience with the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, that doing so is considered a hostile action.

A reasonable sample of his published work can be found at EGGS OVER TOKYO. Like most folks with an abundance of time on their hands, Ron. blogs; and because he likes to keep things eggish, he calls his blog  SCRAMBLED, NOT FRIED
Although he loves his poetry, Ron. writes a fair amount of gem-like prose, some of which can be found here and at the HOUSE OF WRITERS.
He's not quite dead yet.

I Know She Wants Me Back, But...

“If your head says forget it / but your heart’s still smoking
call me at the station / the lines are open”
–Joni Mitchell

Today’s forecast is for a 30% chance of showers in the mid 50s, with the Fall foliage just a couple days past peak.

Actual conditions on October 5th, twenty-three years ago: ditto.

In 1991, October 5th was a Saturday and I was driving north in the rental, everything I owned—not nearly as much, way back then—rattling around in the back of the truck, nearly drowning out the radio.

I’d driven almost completely out of range of my long-term Saturday afternoon radiolove, Ruth Eddy, who’d always play whatever I called and asked her for and, while we waited for it to come up on the playlist, we’d chat. I’m not sure it was flirting, but it was something.

The last I heard from Ruth, the radio crackle had almost overtaken the broadcast altogether, but I could hear her saying something about how she hoped her friend Ron was still out there somewhere, still listening, and that she hoped to hear from him again sometime soon. Then she played Joni Mitchell’s You Turn Me On, I’m A Radio.

And then she was gone.

None of that mattered anymore, though. A couple hours later, I was parking the truck in My Beloved Sandra’s driveway.

I’ve been home, living happily ever after, since.

1212 Hits

Since You've Been Gone

After a couple weeks on the new job, he goes out on a Saturday morning and stops by the recycling center to visit one of his former clients, who talks to him like he’d never left, tells him about the med changes, tells him that he’s still hoping to join the gym, still hoping to visit his brother in New Jersey, even though the brother has never returned his calls, even though no one’s helping him make plans for the trip or hire a traveling companion.

He starts to tell his former client all about his new job, but the client doesn’t seem to acknowledge that he’s been gone for a while now, and even asks him when he’s coming by for his next home visit or if he’ll be seeing him at the Drop-In Center on Wednesday before Men’s Group. 

Later, after coffee, alone, he thinks about dropping in on another former client at his home, but recognizes his own pathetic dependency, decides instead to let the past be past and drives home slowly, noticing the increasingly overcast sky and the first of the changing leaves.  

Recent comment in this post
Virginia M Macasaet
transitions and letting go. Very nice.
Wednesday, 10 September 2014 00:06
1077 Hits
1 Comment

Danse Macabre


     The Chief of Surgery, standing alongside the Head of Pathology and the Director of Resident Training in the surgical theater, scowls. The surgeon, scalpel poised, looks up, sees the scowl, takes a deep breath and makes the primary incision. The patient is strapped to the table, and cannot move.  Minimum local anesthesia has been applied to the scalp where it is to be peeled back from the skull.  Drills stand nearby, ready. 

     There is, after the initial outpouring, very little blood.

     Eleven small holes are drilled in two concentric circles. By the time this part of the procedure is completed, the Chief of Surgery has left the theater. The surgeon has noted this fact, and breathes a little more easily. On the insertion of the probes, the patient’s pupils alternately dilate and constrict.  He complains of cold. He sings a dirty little song he learned in his childhood—a song he thought he’d long ago forgotten. 

     His pupils are pinpoints.  “Mama?” he asks. The surgeon tells him he’s doing fine. “Ellie,” he tells the surgeon; “My dad called her Ellie.”

     “I bet you used to dance with her in the kitchen.”



     Despite the restraints, his left foot waltzes.








Recent Comments
Katherine Gregor
I find this harrowing. It reminds me of when someone very close to me had brain surgery. I remember walking along the neurologic... Read More
Sunday, 24 August 2014 16:05
Rosy Cole
Reminds me of Volta's frog experiment.
Monday, 25 August 2014 11:43
918 Hits



Eight days a week

walking on Penny Lane

he had Beatles tunes

stuck in his head, but

under the boardwalk

it was The Drifters.

He never figured out

why fools fall in love

in the still of the night.


Recent comment in this post
Katherine Gregor
I used to get earworms all the time but now that I'm older, they seem to be more under control. Have you read 'Musicophilia' by O... Read More
Saturday, 16 August 2014 10:05
962 Hits
1 Comment

Latest Comments

Monika Schott A rickety bridge
18 November 2017
Thanks, Di.
Diane Rampertshammer A rickety bridge
17 November 2017
Pure poetry - very evocative - you are a painter with words..Di
Ken Hartke Lamenting the Lost Art of Conversation
12 November 2017
Thanks for the comments. Rosy -- I look at this sort of social conversation as a healthful thing for...
Rosy Cole First Song
12 November 2017
This is almost like a memory of birth, reviving those sensations, but translated in imagistic terms....
Rosy Cole Lamenting the Lost Art of Conversation
12 November 2017
Oh Ken, how rare that is! A gift. What a lovely sojourn in the byways and an unexpected exchange of ...

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