Spotlight on Bill Reynolds




The Ringalievio Tree

by Bill Reynolds


Life goes on, sometimes painfully. 

By Mortimer Brewster

Review (on Internet) 5.0 out of 5 stars

    Yes, The Ringalievio Tree is a coming of age novel, but unlike any other I've read.

The traditional coming of age novel slowly builds like a pollinated bud that eventually

blooms into a beautiful flower.  Not The Ringalievio Tree! It certainly builds,

but more like a carbuncle, full of pressure and pain finally coming to a head and bursting.

That is part of this story's charm. 
    Throughout the story the reader will wonder how such a wonderful and naive young man

named Billy never fell under the spell of his totally dysfunctional extended family whose

behavior may, but this reviewer thinks not, have been driven by the anxiety and uncertainty

of a country on the verge of WWII. 
    Climb onto a branch of The Ringalievio Tree and meet a cast of characters you'll love to

hate until they are shown the way by an uncomplicated lad who can't help but improve

things no matter where he goes.


Poems by Bill Reynolds.....

Now I Lay Me….

As I lay on my bed
listening to the sounds
in the street below
I thought about the play
we had done :
a melodrama
faceless characters
exaggerated actions
magnified emotions.

Rose was in it
the persecuted heroine
more sinned against than most
and I was the manly hero.

“Rose,” I said. “Meet me
on the bridge at midnight!”
and the words
of the deep-dyed villain
rang in my ears :

“You shall pay dearly
for this night’s work!”

I lay back and wondered:
What would it be like
to meet Rose at midnight
here in my room? and What
would I have to pay so dearly for?

As I stretched out, near sleep,
the giant garage door
of the Apex Hauling Company
across the street
emitted a long, rasping groan;
it creaked, broke into sections,
and lifted on its rollers to
let the trucks enter for the night.


Ants crowd the surface of the buds
in early May sucking the nectar
that seals the petals closed. Day
after day they work, attacking
the petals’ edges. Week after week,
the buds grow larger, and then
one morning, there they are:
the petals in the night have given in,
the ants are gone, and the buds have
flowered into a lovely white tinged
with pink. Other buds attract no ants
for some reason, or not for long, and
forgetting the promise of bloom, they
harden and wither away.
Marriages are like that.


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