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* Ode to Rubik|
* Vendor's Booths
* To One I Never Knew
* Afternoon News
* The Watcher
* Dawn Harvest|
* On his Mindness
* Untitled ("You have always been a very protective mother")
* Thea's Full Moon|
* Draconic Duo ("A Dragon Birthday Poem" and "On Dragons")
* Ode to a Citrus Fruit|
* When I left the volcano
* Bird of Prey
* Lurking on soc.real-life
* it's no fun to angst about the big things
And you can also use this link to see the current poem.
With perseverance, perhaps, you get
one side of six; then, knowing
if you undo it -- death! -- like some
obscenely growing game of six-chamber
A few long hours and colors dance
before your eyes, the world dissolving.
Who needs to study anyway? Not
while these six sides remain revolving!
You're soon involving
mind and soul and tired fingers.
All the while your disgrace lingers.
Succumbing to the vice one day,
you beg your local gamestore
for a panacea.
And, lo and behold, when you twist and turn,
it responds at last to your call!
(Nose firmly planted in book,) you somehow
make the right corrections
-- And then one mistwist on the
Final Sequence does it in --
...And it's dissection.
By and large, we ignored the booths;
he, because beads and jewelry and
three-foot dreamcatchers hold
no fascination for those who make them;
me, because I was secure in the knowledge
that there was nothing there that I needed.
(I ended up buying a pelt
for a wrist-rest for my keyboard.)
Later on, Gary said, in the car:
"Something that is sacred, you give
or you trade. You do not sell."
I nodded and offered him a piece
from my bag of beef jerky.
We know it happened 'cause the Tabloids say that it was so,
Like O.J.'s secret love affair with Michaelangelo!
(Well, even if the dates are off, it's been confirmed by Bo,
He travels 'round through far-off lands to give us all the dope,
Like Barbara Striesand's steamy-hot relations with the Pope,
And cures to help fight aging. (Try inhaling powdered soap.)
And do we doubt him? ... Nope.
They let us know where Elvis is, and then, for our protection,
They tell us 'bout the outbreaks of strange alien infections,
And people spend to buy each issue from the tabloid section!
...You think there's a connection?
He makes the rounds of the moonlit grounds,
Battered flashlight firmly in hand;
Gun at his belt, ears under a cap, and
Sixth sense born from years at the plant.
Once again, the dark at the industrial park
Conceals no intruder, as expected;
The shoes scuff the mat at the guardshack's door,
And outside, it is again deserted.
He's got half an hour before his next tour;
The grizzled eyes sweep a patrol, and then turn
To his laid-aside novel, a tent on the desk.
He grabs the paperback with a soft murmur.
Every few months, there's excitement. Why, once
He (as his boss put it) "apprehended" a thief.
But most nights, he just chases spirits away --
And John Grisham keeps him from sleep.
(written 11-20-95; in the style of Kingsley Amis' "Late Venture")
Sunrise in the Eastern window.
Sunlight pours in, spreading warmly;
Rolling over, facing sunshine,
Facing you, I breathe in deeply.
Savor every fleeting odor:
Morning scent flush through my nostrils,
Run my nose along your shoulders --
Something strange and wild and primal.
Motion wakes you, stirs your senses.
Knowing this, I take your shoulders;
Soothe your now-exhausted muscles,
Draw you slowly, softly closer.
Hold you, with my arms afire
From the heat of morning dawning,
Hold you, with my heart afire
From the heat of bodies pressing.
Gaze into your eyes -- Now turning,
Staring straight into the sunrise,
Feel the sunlight gaze back at me.
Close my eyes, and savor passion
As we move in our conjunction,
Casting shadows on the doorway.
They fall smoothly through the morning.
To many folks, my mental state is plain:
They call me "Loony", "Psycho", "Freak" or "Nut",
And all that proves is that their minds are shut,
And that their feeble heads can't entertain
A single thought which does not fit their vain,
Conceited notions of exactly what
Reality entails. They're in a rut.
Yet, as things go, one truly can't complain
About their mental health -- it's up to tool;
Their heads are not consumed by lunacy.
Their sin's their prejudice, it seems to me.
But bigots, with calm reason, make the rules,
So I, in grip of madness, do complain
That sanity is wasted on the sane.
The shadow cliffs over dun sand past fractal beachwater under satin-sheen Pacific under torn-paper-edge cloudline cut by black chasm branches of shadow trees on shadow cliffs let you watch from afar the yin of foam and yang of moondark water continually Join But on the freckled, dunpeppered beach spattered yin with shells and yang with rocks and bisected by the paws of a fox from the shadow cliffs you can walk out, dance at the limit point of the advancing retreating fractal touch the foam with your shoes the ocean with your soul and watch the full moon dance with you on the kowtowing water, and fishscale-ripple the moonblacked veil on the beach past your feet.
(Yes, I know, I didn't write this poem. But sometimes you just need to
showcase the work of one you love.)
If air were ground and Earth were sky,
We'd all too soon learn how to fly
But yearn to take a walk.
Jan. 24, 1995
To those who say that dragons are all cruel, And by their nature beasts fit to despise: I say to them, "Happy is he who tries To think himself and listen not to fools." To those who say that dragons must be good, And by their virtue past all men they rise: I say to them, "Much thanks, your thinking's wise, But 'must' is much too strong -- try using 'should.'" To those who say that dragons cannot be, Who say that fantasy leads to delusion: ... To those who through their eyelids cannot see, Who use their faith to mask up their confusion: I've no reply -- They'd listen not to me -- For by their logic, I am an illusion.Tad Ramspott
A Dragon Birthday Poem (written for my 17th)
Seventeen years from the day of my birth!
Old age is close at hand
For packaged with my dragon mind
Came humankind's lifespan.
Seventeen years, I hope, is not
Too late for me to act
I want a tail, some bright green scales,
And claws in my contract.
And how 'bout some wings? Big leathery things,
They'd really help me fly,
Do you think that I'm asking too much as a gift?
Ah well ... Happy birthday to I.
July 16, 1994
O greenish, ovate, slightly sour lime! That puckers up my lips with every bite. Yet thou art still a sweeter fruit: I might Find thee, unlike thy sister orange, a rhyme; O citrus fruit! That grows in balmy climes. Fluorescent pastel colors! What a sight That thou can still glow under black of night! (... When coated with Chernobyl fallout slime.) And if in someone's mouth I put a lemon in, Or orange, or lime, or grapefruit fleshy red, That taste of peeled fruit with boundless power Will pucker up their mouth (rather unfeminine) ... An overdose will cause imploded heads. O citrus fruit! why art thou so darn SOUR?Tad Ramspott
A glide to the beach, talons depressing sand
she watches the change
Two sets of footprints at an ocean's edge
I still haven't visited.
A tension of skin, a press of bodies
she celebrates our release
Later, when we again brought out our passion
I found her new.
Another morning: more fading memories of forgettable worlds
draining when I sit
-- Sometimes I think
I spend such time in others' dreams, there's
little time for mine.
Tad "Baxil" Ramspott
I was welcomed by the city,
for I did its folk no harm;
Know indifference will trump pity
if the prize is smothering arms.
Tad "Baxil" Ramspott
odd ambivalence of self-appointed odometrists fearing death of civilization seeking closure of the centuries * we watch * the apple turn to mankind's descent light into darkness * becoming * the future reborn our quantum age of ones and zeroes angels devils and digital saviors nothing in between the battle lines
like a bird of prey,
snaring old belongings
and hurried goodbyes.
box of mints,
... unfinished work;
the hunter catches only enough for survival.
steam vents into space
from around the corner
a seagull wheels
ten feet below
the sun sets.
I wonder why she left --
she thought to test her wings
in greater skies,
mother pushed her from
our treetop nest.
Tad "Baxil" Ramspott
another day earning pay another week of work routine another year disappears in twisting paths through this machine sitting, typing never griping I'm sealed in my building's shell outside the window life looks in shrugs hopelessly, and runs like hell.
world, hear my soul-torn cry --
my chocolate bar has broke in two.
in my lap, now, crumbs and goo.
outside, i can hear birds sing,
but here such joy cannot apply;
with dirty clothes i'm suffering.
curse the heavens and lament --
two batteries are d o a.
i swapped them out, and consequent-
ly faced two minutes of delay
to hear the tunes of pink floyd play.
i'm telling you, this ain't my day.
woe is me, o woe indeed --
for i can't think of a song
with "thursday" in the title.
it's not a thing i really need,
so why's it seem something inside'll
burst? damn it, this is just wrong.
(insert phrase expressing sorrow) --
every six lines this gets verse.
see? look! i'm reduced to puns
and rhymes that seem at times coerced.
my angst is wasted, and i'm done --
until fresh pain strikes me tomorrow.
Tad "Baxil" Ramspott
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