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With perseverance, perhaps, you get
one side of six; then, knowing
if you undo it -- death! -- like some
obscenely growing game of six-chamber
Russian Roulette;

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.

Tad Ramspott
4-20-96

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.

Tad Ramspott
5-19-96

Tad Ramspott
6-8-96

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,
Their agent-on-the-go.)

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?

Tad Ramspott
2-27-95

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.

Tad Ramspott
(written 11-20-95; in the style of Kingsley Amis' "Late Venture")

Tad Ramspott
12-20-95

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.

Tad Ramspott
12-20-95

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.

Tad Ramspott
02-24-95

Tad Ramspott
1995

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.

Thea
11-13-97

(Yes, I know, I didn't write this poem. But sometimes you just need to showcase the work of one you love.) ]B=8)

If air were ground and Earth were sky,
We'd all too soon learn how to fly
But yearn to take a walk.

Tad Ramspott
Jan. 24, 1995

On Dragons

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.

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.

Tad Ramspott
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?

A glide to the beach, talons depressing sand
she watches the change
mysterious
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
together
Later, when we again brought out our passion
I found her new.

Another morning: more fading memories of forgettable worlds
draining when I sit
detached

-- Sometimes I think
I spend such time in others' dreams, there's
little time for mine.

 
Tad "Baxil" Ramspott
6-16-99

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
10-23-99

  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

 
She swoops
through the
14th-floor office
like a bird of prey,
snaring old belongings
and hurried goodbyes.

Left behind:
Bottled water,
box of mints,
desktop calendar
... unfinished work;

the hunter catches only enough for survival.

Outside
steam vents into space
   from around the corner
a seagull wheels
   ten feet below
the sun sets.

I wonder why she left --
   perhaps
she thought to test her wings
in greater skies,
   or
mother pushed her from
our treetop nest.

 
Tad "Baxil" Ramspott
12-23-99

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
5-22-02

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