"ragtime" poems
White folks: pack your bags and go.
Our nut-brown world is quite offended.
Make your shame-faced exit NOW,
And leave your mansions unattended.
Wait—before you pass the doors,
It's time to settle ethnic scores.
No more ragtime Minstrel Show.
Our Moorish Science took it down.
Black lives matter. White, less so—
Now move your pale face out of town . . .
But first, shell out for racial shame
Caucasian losers of the game.
Cultural pride is ours alone:
Kings and Egyptian queens we were.
The glories of our race, well-known
Bedazzle in a darkened blur
(Clear to Africa's descendants—
Puzzling to you white dependents).
Blackness lent your world its light,
Taught the Dutch to tend those flowers.
Scandinavia grew bright
Under our beneficent powers.
Negroes gave your blondes their beauty;
Helped those Norsemen shake their *****
The Seven Wonders of the world:
We built them all. No vain conjecture
Dims our banner, black, unfurled,
Above eternal architecture.
Arts and knowledge gained from us
Are what we threaten to discuss.
We invented math and science
Which you robbed from Timbuktu.
Swarthy wisdom's brave defiance
Caused Old Europe to renew.
All our treasure that you plundered
Testifies: your days are numbered.
Classics of our Greeks you stole:
Philosophy was never yours.
Shame upon your racist soul;
For Bach and Mozart both were Moors.
Misappropriated treasures
call for ruthless hard-line measures.
Latino fate falls next—but, where ?
Jews, Turks, and Arabs: are you. . . white ?
Orientals everywhere:
Choose your side and join the fight.
Blackness rising! Late the hour;
Heed your call to fight the power.
Crackers need to check your race—
Stop rooting for that ****** clown.
Rednecks all up in our face;
Racist throwbacks got us down.
But as your statues bite the dust
Your light goes dark (you know it must).
So move on out, oppressor, thief.
Long have you held our nation back.
In some white galaxy seek relief—
But here the light itself is black.
Stars are racist. So is the sun.
Now let God's great black will be done.
Sep 23, 2017
Sep 23, 2017 at 12:03 PM UTC
You’ve got your ragtime, got the blues
Got country, rock, dubstep, each a different hue
Hip-hop, rap, Americana, funk
Disco, electronica, they all go bump
Indie, groove, folk and heavy metal
Screamo, emo, punk, they’re for the rebels
Pop, classical, tribal, thrash
Dark wave, bluegrass, techno, acid
Garage, roots, acoustic, dance
Alternative, jazz, ******** trance
Afrobeat, christian, reggae, jam
Honkey-tonk, surf, ska, big-band
Ambient, industrial, club, tin pan alley
But who’s ever heard of plow music?
Jul 18, 2012
Jul 18, 2012 at 10:51 PM UTC
THIN sheets of blue smoke among white slabs ... near the shingle mill ... winter morning.
Falling of a dry leaf might be heard ... circular steel tears through a log.
Slope of woodland ... brown ... soft ... tinge of blue such as ***** eyes.
Farther, field fires ... funnel of yellow smoke ... spellings of other yellow in corn stubble.
Bobsled on a down-hill road ... February snow mud ... horses steaming ... Oscar the driver sings ragtime under a spot of red seen a mile ... the red wool yarn of Oscar's stocking cap is seen from the shingle mill to the ridge of hemlock and cedar.
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I have missed your company.
Enveloped in strange faces,
The only coterie I keep of late
Is that of your overwrought descant.
Oh, James Douglas.
What happened to your dream?
DO NOT DESPAIR,
FRIEND
The words you once transcribed
Your intoxicating,
Or was it intoxicated
Ragtime
Linger in the subconscious of a generation,
an unnoticeable haversack
Traveling
Seeing
Traveling
Watching every ounce
Of the determinate world
Seeing
Acting as
The portmantoligism of my conscience
And what is left of my intellect
Until I realize that my
Crippling loneliness,
Is the only palatable fruit of disillusionment.
See, Christine?
Anybody can use big words to write about the 20th Century.
Feb 17, 2013
Feb 17, 2013 at 11:38 PM UTC
He thinks her little feet should pass
Where dandelions star thickly grass;
Her hands should lift in sunlit air
Sea-wind should tangle up her hair.
Green leaves, he says, have never heard
A sweeter ragtime mockingbird,
Nor has the moon-man ever seen,
Or man in the spotlight, leering green,
Such a beguiling, smiling queen.
Her eyes, he says, are stars at dusk,
Her mouth as sweet as red-rose musk;
And when she dances his young heart swells
With flutes and viols and silver bells;
His brain is dizzy, his senses swim,
When she slants her ragtime eyes at him. . .
Moonlight shadows, he bids her see,
Move no more silently than she.
It was this way, he says, she came,
Into his cold heart, bearing flame.
And now that his heart is all on fire
Will she refuse his heart's desire?--
And O! has the Moon Man ever seen
(Or the spotlight devil, leering green)
A sweeter shadow upon a screen?
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****** a self bone love
where only crystal skulls *****
in morphine harbors of youth.
Penetrate the gentle pink dawn
of dead days hanging -
moon rising red mouth, half-open.
Savor the metallic ******* ragtime
of cold handsome lips.
Razz the fluid glutted
plop of fossil *****
Slip the light, hot licks, squid squirm
tight snarl back to spread-eagle rising.
Gnaw at the fresh goose-pimpled flesh
in tribes of sweat crossing.
See the green railwayed eyes,
half-smile sprouting.
Urge spasms to go slack, end-to-end
like hair bellies over, shudders run-
down one foot flutters, fluid waves drop.
Flash on the swamp cypress relief
as the **** sputters out
and faded pink curtains heave.
Allow the bring down roll.
The two planes, silent park
like some ***** bed repose.
Sep 30, 2012
Sep 30, 2012 at 12:45 PM UTC
The tour group meandered
through silent monuments
of marble, limestone, and granite,
both grandiloquent and pedestrian,
both a signal of worldly prominence
and all those left behind could
scrape together on short notice.
They stopped by the grave of
a once-famed ragtime composer,
the still resting place of a musician
who had been all
banging syncopation and boisterous clamor.
The lyrics of his most famous song
were etched onto the memorial
lovingly in reverent tribute
with the presumption of indelible finality.
But the words were so blurred,
so bled with the rot and rust of weather and neglect
you could no longer make them out.
Perhaps it was a simple failure to scrub
the accursed headstone clean.
Perhaps it was the inexorable stain of time
that could never truly be lifted.
In the end, it was all the same,
all the same,
the same freighted symbolism
all the same.
Oct 20, 2018
Oct 20, 2018 at 3:18 AM UTC
All the policemen, saloonkeepers and efficiency experts in Toledo
knew Bern Dailey; secretary ten years when Whitlock was mayor.
Pickpockets, yeggs, three card men, he knew them all and how they flit
from zone to zone, birds of wind and weather, singers, fighters,
scavengers.
The Washington monument pointed to a new moon for us
and a gang from over the river sang ragtime to a ukelele.
The river mist marched up and down the Potomac, we hunted
the fog-swept Lincoln Memorial, white as a blond woman's arm.
We circled the city of Washington and came back home four o'clock in the morning,
passing a sign: House Where Abraham Lincoln Died, Admission Cents.
I got a letter from him in Sweden and I sent him a postcard from Norway ..
every newspaper from America ran news of "the flu."
The path of a night fog swept up the river to the Lincoln Memorial
when I saw it again and alone at a winter's end, the marble in the mist
white as a blond woman's arm.
1.7k
He thinks her little feet should pass
Where dandelions star thickly grass;
Her hands should lift in sunlit air
Sea-wind should tangle up her hair.
Green leaves, he says, have never heard
A sweeter ragtime mockingbird,
Nor has the moon-man ever seen,
Or man in the spotlight, leering green,
Such a beguiling, smiling queen.
Her eyes, he says, are stars at dusk,
Her mouth as sweet as red-rose musk;
And when she dances his young heart swells
With flutes and viols and silver bells;
His brain is dizzy, his senses swim,
When she slants her ragtime eyes at him. . .
Moonlight shadows, he bids her see,
Move no more silently than she.
It was this way, he says, she came,
Into his cold heart, bearing flame.
And now that his heart is all on fire
Will she refuse his heart's desire?-
And O! has the Moon Man ever seen
(Or the spotlight devil, leering green)
A sweeter shadow upon a screen?
1.7k
He’s got natural rhythm, a girl in a red dress, a suit of clothes, a hat and a silk vest,
A set of brogues, a packet of cigarettes, a 20 dollar bill with no regrets.
He’s got a fast mouth, a slick deck of cards, chequered blues and a V8 ford;
He’s got jazz, gospel, and ragtime too: a carpet bag and a jug for *****
Sheba, Sheba, Sheik!
He’s got it, he’s got Jake,
His feet will roam from town to town.
Sheba, Sheba, Sheik, Sheik!
He’s the devil with a big black snake,
Your feet may never leave this town; not alive anyway!
For he’s on the board walk,
She’s on the board walk,
We’re on the board walk now!
He’s got mojo, see him switch and walk, a winning smile, a stick of chalk,
He’s a hot shot, man about town, his skin is sweet and his eyes are brown,
He’ll strut that rooster, beat them gums, take cash or cheque before she comes.
He’s got jazz, gospel, ragtime too, a carpet bag and a jug for *****
Sheba, Sheba, Sheik!
He’s got it, he’s got Jake,
His feet will roam from town to town,
Sheba, Sheba, Sheik, Sheik!
He’s the devil and no mistake
Your feet may never leave this town; not alive anyway!
For he’s on the board walk,
She’s on the board walk,
We’re on the board walk now!
Song Link: https://youtu.be/l5papPgYaBc
Mar 6, 2018
Mar 6, 2018 at 6:53 AM UTC
We sit together and talk, or smoke in silence.
You say (but use no words) 'this night is passing
As other nights when we are dead will pass . . .'
Perhaps I misconstrue you: you mean only,
'How deathly pale my face looks in that glass . . .'
You say: 'We sit and talk, of things important . . .
How many others like ourselves, this instant,
Mark the pendulum swinging against the wall?
How many others, laughing, sip their coffee--
Or stare at mirrors, and do not talk at all? . . .
'This is the moment' (so you would say, in silence)
When suddenly we have had too much of laughter:
And a freezing stillness falls, no word to say.
Our mouths feel foolish . . . For all the days hereafter
What have we saved--what news, what tune, what play?
'We see each other as vain and futile tricksters,--
Posturing like bald apes before a mirror;
No pity dims our eyes . . .
How many others, like ourselves, this instant,
See how the great world wizens, and are wise? . . .'
Well, you are right . . . No doubt, they fall, these seconds . . .
When suddenly all's distempered, vacuous, ugly,
And even those most like angels creep for schemes.
The one you love leans forward, smiles, deceives you,
Opens a door through which you see dark dreams.
But this is momentary . . . or else, enduring,
Leads you with devious eyes through mists and poisons
To horrible chaos, or suicide, or crime . . .
And all these others who at your conjuration
Grow pale, feeling the skeleton touch of time,--
Or, laughing sadly, talk of things important,
Or stare at mirrors, startled to see their faces,
Or drown in the waveless vacuum of their days,--
Suddenly, as from sleep, awake, forgetting
This nauseous dream; take up their accustomed ways,
Exhume the ghost of a joke, renew loud laughter,
Forget the moles above their sweethearts' eyebrows,
Lean to the music, rise,
And dance once more in a rose-festooned illusion
With kindness in their eyes . . .
They say (as we ourselves have said, remember)
'What wizardry this slow waltz works upon us!
And how it brings to mind forgotten things!'
They say 'How strange it is that one such evening
Can wake vague memories of so many springs!'
And so they go . . . In a thousand crowded places,
They sit to smile and talk, or rise to ragtime,
And, for their pleasures, agree or disagree.
With secret symbols they play on secret passions.
With cunning eyes they see
The innocent word that sets remembrance trembling,
The dubious word that sets the scared heart beating . . .
The pendulum on the wall
Shakes down seconds . . . They laugh at time, dissembling;
Or coil for a victim and do not talk at all.
1.3k
My classy *** ragtime notes
Can pound yo dub step trippin’ beats any day.
You’re techno,
I’m folk.
You gotta wear neon to be seen.
Man, they can see me from the moon.
You spend two hours getting dressed
I roll out of bed and still look this fly.
Your hat points in a different direction than your nose.
Mine is the same one my grandfather wore.
Your pants are falling off your ***
Mine are held up with suspenders.
You try so hard.
I kind of feel bad for you.
Girl, you a fraud.
And I’m the real deal.
You tried to hide you’re in love with my guy.
I kind of wanted to **** you.
You kind of did me a favor.
He was just as bad as you.
Thanks for showing me
That I can do better than Dub Step.
Jun 28, 2012
Jun 28, 2012 at 10:35 AM UTC
He drinks it up, he drinks the
**** like it’s water.
There are faces, and files
and they change with the seasons.
The parking lot has never been this dim, but
who forgot to turn on the lights?
The friends who gave him trouble
now just give him help.
The scarred people seem little more than
pawns in a game, and he must play them, but
it’s not his choice.
The mirror’s like a caricature,
it provides more distance than closeness.
I wished he could’ve seen his son
being born, but.
Somebody slams the table, ****
something’s going on
We got him, men
we got him, we got him.
Oh wait, oh wait, egg on our face,
we got played, we got tricked
this man is just black.
“I want to prevail,” he says,
“I’m no loser,” he says.
He’s no quitter, but
he sure ****** it up.
The faces get twisted, now the
eyes look the same.
This won’t be the first time
and it won’t be the last.
He blames a lot on others,
but he knows that persistence
is infallible, like the pope.
Nobody really trusts him now, he’s a bit of
everything and everywhere.
Heart’s in the right place, but
where’s your heart?
He keeps downing the brown ****
keeps downing the liquids.
“One day I’ll get him,” he says.
“one day I’ll get the *******
At this point, he speaks for himself,
for himself. Nobody, no
one, nobody else.
At dinnertime, he says,
“sing me a song.”
Relax is defeat,
rest is charity, rest is
A deep moral compromise.
a loser needs a bed
A winner needs a mug.
he downs the ****
He downs the ****
god, he downs the ****
like it’s water.
OOGABOOGABOOGA
i’ve got him in my sights
He won’t see it coming
he’ll be shocked as the rest
A **** like that? no
he wouldn’t see a barn.
He didn’t say, didn’t see
his own mother, his mother
When he came out the womb.
didn’t see **** I say,
didn’t see ****
SPIRAL espionage ELEGY sang
now or never or ever again.
RAINTIME odysseys
left im babbling rancid
The ragtime freaks giving him looks
from the left of the sandbags,
The night, the night,
too long, too long,
The night’s a *****
i can’t stay, i can’t stay
to night’s a *****
i can’t stay with this *****
this ***** no
take these ropes off
this *****
***** take these chains off
i will, i will
i, no
you are you
people
you are *******
you are stupid *******
these are chains
i am chained
who
why
god
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 2:02 AM UTC
Beat backthe back beat.
Drop right in.
Ska reggae. Blues . Groove metal. Old ragtime.
Trip but don't fall.
Stride piano. Jump.
At the savoy.
Tight rythmic confusion.live the illusion.
I walked past the Dunbar in days past.
The doors were shuttered.. I heard fats' ivory twinkle.
On central ave.
Synche up.
Or don't
Just drop in
Where you fit in.
In front.
In back.
Up high or to the side.
Groove. Baby.
Groove.
May 26, 2013
May 26, 2013 at 12:07 PM UTC
The carpenters want a raise
just to ***** the roof beams,
for whom do they toll
if not for their grapes of wrath,
for me it's mutiny on the bounty,
I'll see them all forty leagues under the sea,
oh, the good earth, the rising sun,
it's a leather stocking tale, Natty Bumppo,
It's a wonder Alice, a pure wonder!
Give me deliverance,
from the common crowd that implores me to
go tell it on the mountain,
with the weather up there,
i'd be gone with the wind
as sure i'm a hand full of dust.
a bride's maidenhead revisited,
no, native sun, never let me go,
for i am the power and the glory
of the ragtime rabbit run.
Jan 15, 2011
Jan 15, 2011 at 8:38 PM UTC
This ragtime band of crusading heroes, called upon to support the crux of contentious plot, designed to be ridiculed, ridiculed to be designed, holding the proportional strength of a thousand independents in their clutches as they march haphazardly onto silver screens, reimagining through a stencil the works of yesteryear, paying homage to homely men long unaccounted for, and damning the spark of imagination held at their conception.
Nov 6, 2014
Nov 6, 2014 at 10:14 PM UTC
I'm on the rag this evening
No shame in my game
On the rag ladies...my Hismones are raging
Touchy as a wet hen
P-Owed.
Wanna scratch a mfkrs eyes out for breathing.
Ahhh... sorry it's my monthly.
Yes we get balsy as haale.
Gotta squash it cause
Ragtime aint real. No free passes...can't say what we feel. Bully boy.
Cant.keep.it real.
Need a gallon of chocolate Iscream an a Chick flik... Naahhmean ?
O.k think I'll just lock my door and cry.
These feckin blue ball cramps are a turble thang.
But when it's all said and done.
I gotta let my nuts hang.
Jun 27, 2014
Jun 27, 2014 at 9:53 PM UTC
The song that was my life
Rang such a simple tune
Played by a four piece ragtime band
The only song they knew
But that was yesterday
Because today is you
Now the music of my life
Is the sweetest of melodies
Such an easy tune to hum
This song of you and me
I revel in who you are
My everlasting symphony
Mar 2, 2013
Mar 2, 2013 at 6:22 PM UTC
I pass the time with old ragtime blues
my thoughts going back to the success of the good old beauty
America the great, the bold, the unwavering
its justice set by the terms of god giving it holy value and praise
the place that created greats like Edgar the poet
but now
now we need to warn the duke
the copper lady is akin to the harlot of Babylon
she embody's the essence of this this nation
which is now just a hollow husk of itself,
but a mere silhouette of its former glory
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 11:39 AM UTC
Where has that classic romantic gone?
The one that writes lines of poetry on paper, on skin
The soulful sway of the heart, taking out time to separate
Away from the world
Within the world
Like the feel of music under the skin
In the veins warbling its majestic tune against the chilled goose-flesh of feeling
The heart on the sleeve
On the chest
In the mouth.
Gravity its working against me
Taking away my breath
Collapsing my wild heart under the suffocating weight
Of that ragtime dime
That jaunting beat of social feet
Pulling me against the current
To a colder tune
Something somber filled with the lonely blues.
Feb 5, 2016
Feb 5, 2016 at 12:07 AM UTC
Its a hard life
Living on the outside
Giving to the inside
Looking for some kind of relief
Standing on the corner
With the ragtime mourner
Playing taps on the grave of a thief
The usher says to hush
Or I'll ask you to leave
Ragtime man says
That's hard to believe
I've come to play my music
And that's what I'll do
We all got our own way to grieve
Its the right time
To open up the doors
And even up old scores
And make sure you leave it all straight
Standing at the river
With the halftime giver
Wondering if I waited too late
The oarman says the poor man
Gets to take the first ride
Halftime man gets right on inside
I came here with nothing
And that's what I've got
I AINT GOT NOTHIN TO HIDE
Its a long wait
Waitin on the beach
Somethin just out of reach
Somethin that I've had on my mind
Riding on over
With the same oar rower
Wondering what it is that I'll find
Rower says to show him
Where he should go
You're my guide
Because only you know
What it is that's made ...
Made just for you
JUST FOR YOU !
Dec 30, 2015
Dec 30, 2015 at 1:37 AM UTC
You popped up when my life was complicated.
Instead of the spirit of depression, your spirit followed me around.
I needed you
Just like three meals a day;
HardBop for Breakfast,
Fusion for Lunch,
Ragtime for a mini snack,
Swing for an evening meal,
Dixieland for a midnight party.
At the time, I never knew you were there.
I just knew it was okay for my soul to hurt.
It was okay to be ******* up and to never be perfect.
You weren't perfect.
Both of our messes collided with each other and it fit.
May 27, 2015
May 27, 2015 at 8:17 PM UTC
maple leaf ragtime
dancing around the maypole
tap the tree at dusk
when dancers are sugar sweet
syrup is very sticky
Jan 31, 2017
Jan 31, 2017 at 9:14 PM UTC
Decadence layered like waves of fog
swept up in a world class, wide range whirlpool
road of autumnal glory, stained like gray day dream
peaceful in its silence, soft in its simplicity
however beneath that dream soaked ragtime sunrise
there was the sharp cut of cold that seeps into your bones
sealed with a padlock engraved in armored frost
drained of summer sincerity
Long have I lingered in morning's eyes
swept into her breath and held in her mighty lungs
holding the moment like a ripe apricot,
which is to say gently, in both hands
Though the moment lives in the light filtered through leaves
I live in the dirt cut from beneath my fingernails,
a warm leather jacket, pressed close to my chest, worn in the elbows
I live in my own switchblade sky
Oct 7, 2016
Oct 7, 2016 at 1:12 AM UTC