High Praise for Time of Triumph...From Ron ... "My new full-length book, Time of Triumph, short stories and selected poems from my Route 66 Club Cafe collection is at the publisher. It should be available before the first of the year. Please check
http://www.taosplazaart.com/ for updates on availability."
Ron met many different people and had unique experiences while serving up the best chili, sourdough biscuits and gravy along with road stories to all who were lured in by the Fat Man billboards. He has now captured the flavor of the time and is serving up his best Route 66 Tales and Poems to all who read his new book.HIGH PRAISE FOR RON'S WRITING...FROM THE AUTHOR OF BLESS ME: ULTIMA, RUDOLFO ANAYA ... "Ron Chávez writes el corazón de Nuevo México. His passion for the people and the land vibrates in his prose and poetry." FROM AUTHOR, BILLIE BOLTON ... "Ron, yo creo que no hay nada de mas bello que una poema en Español." It seems that every time I read your poetry, you go deeper and deeper into yourself. But the language gets subtler and subtler, so that you make me feel it, instead of telling me what to feel." FROM THE TAOS NEWS ... "Sometimes a good idea only needs someone to create a spark, then patiently fan it into a burning success. Ron Chávez created a spark of renewed interest in Hispanic literary traditions with one of the most successful bilingual poetry readings ever in Taos, NM." - Jerry A. Padilla, Editor, El Crepúsculo, The Taos News
FROM THE FORWARD to Time of Triumph ... "Although I have some familiarity with the style and repertoire of Chávez's poetry, I was delighted to hear his vocal interpretations of poems recently completed. For this recital, the poet shared a thematic perspective: the concept of soul. In my view, the word soul, when used in a non-religious context is more related to the Greek meaning of psyche. However, Chávez seems to be referring to something more comprehensive in meaning, or what may possibly be interpreted as the very core of our being-our persona. From his first selection to the last, we feel the theme of the soul emerging again and again, cautiously threading its way from one poem into another, but at the same time, revealing something new and exciting." Mitchell M. Masters, PhD, Emeritus Professor of Higher Learning, Arkansas State University
FROM THE EDITOR ... "Sometimes you get lucky. Working with Ron Chavez has been one of those times for me. As I edited and designed Ron's book, I got to read his poetry and stories over and over, and the more I did the more I grew to love them. Their simplicity, clarity, and sometimes heart-wrenching truth brings me closer to knowing what's important in life and how integrity can make all the difference. Back Side of Glory and The Loneliest Road are just two of the stories which call to me, pull me in with their uncanny frankness and stark, sometimes brutal, reality. Knowing Ron Chavez personally has given me a renewed sense that there are people who say they care and do care; I am thankful for his ability to put it down on paper so well." - Heidi Ratner-Connolly, Author, Editor, Book Designer - Harvard Girl Editing Services - Heidi@harvardgirledits.com
http://www.harvardgirledits.com/Check out http://www.taosplazaart.com/ for latest release news on Time of Triumph.
A TIME IN THE TREES
A Short-Short Story by Ronald P. Chavez
Back then, living in the middle of a horse pasture in Arroyo Hondo, I lie on the top bunk of my RV and look out my front top window. In the far distance, a threatening heat haze swirls below the timberline of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains to the west. The sun climbs high with uncommon relentless heat. The birds perched on pine fence posts sing in what seems like wails of woe.
Patches of piñon trees stand dead and dried in a dusky brown ugliness in the sloping foothills, contrasting sharply with the heavy parched green of the tall pines in the mountain peaks above. Already a mirage-like heat haze is shimmering down along the ridges, in and out of the trees. What few clouds the magnetic pull deep inside the bowels of the mountains is able to muster, the raging hot winds scatter. Below, the land lies cracked and sun-baked, sucked dry of any hint of moisture. The wild grass withers and yellows in the far-running western llano. Crops wilt to short stubble in the fields.
The Taos News reports how two men throw blows over disputed rights to acequia water. One old man is slammed on the side of the head with a shovel when he stands firm and tall in defense of his share of water. Tempers flare. Lifelong friends fight and argue. The people of the land are at the sharp edge of civil intolerance. The relentless drought is also taking its toll on the fauna.
Brown bears, gaunt and stark-eyed slide down from the mountains in a weak, tail-dragging gait, scrounging for human garbage, needing to avert the horror of slow starvation causing panic in the villages.
At Taos Pueblo, the Tewa tribe solemnly dances the corn dance, pleading for rain in rhythmic chants, keeping step to the hypnotic beat of the drums. On their knees, rosary beads in hand, the Spanish gente pray for rain to all the saints, to the Virgin Mary, to Jesús Cristo.
White folks dig into Job of the Bible to try and understand why God's wrath is upon them. Surely, they dread, God has not turned the devil loose to punish their unwary transgressions. All seek God's intervention.
Unresponsive, God stands still, in thundering silence. The spirit of Taos Mountain weeps.
With nostalgic longing, I recall my time in the trees when I ran away from my old world. There, I lived in a tent and cooked by campfire. There, I once shook with fright and trembled with terror one black night as I lay alone curled up inside my thin skinned tent high on a ridge in the eye of a storm. Flashing lightning bolts stung my eyes and thunderclaps split my eardrums in that long, lonely ordeal.
But by morning, the sight of gently rising ground fog lifted by the slow warming heat of the new sun coupled with the scent of rain coming off the thick pine-needle floor calmed my fears. It was the rain-drenched forest that now freshened and renewed my spirit. It was the best of times. It was a time of cleansing for my troubled soul. But it was the trees that lifted my hopes the most.
My camp stood between two giant blue spruce out of the sun, surrounded by douglas fir, ponderosa pine, and white skinned aspen, their tiny heart-shaped leaves quaking in the morning breeze, their communal root system determined to dominate its place in the forest. Beneath the high pine canopy grew maple, willows, birch, and locust.
Down on the lower slopes, stands of piñon and juniper graced and scented the sloping hills. Along the streams and arroyos that snaked down towards the Taos Valley, narrow-leaf cottonwoods dropped a dark, cool shade along their earthen banks.
My mind slowly returns to the present reality. Outside the hot winds howl in all their fury. Two stallions and a mare huddle against the big blow beside a barbed-wire fence, rumps to the wind. The stench from their droppings, commingled with the windblown dust, blasts in through open windows. There are no trees. There is no shade. The day grows hotter. My bones feel dry and brittle.
Oh! How I yearn to return to the trees. But fate always seems to find a way to disrupt and tangle one's life according to its own plan. It was not to be. I write a poem.
"Worry cripples
Stress kills
When the devil comes
Your soul to steal
Why...don't we get it?"
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