"ramrod" poems
The tiny, black transistor, three wires,
One two three, ramrod straight get bent,
Quarter-inch strain, needle-nose pliers and it's broken.
Instructions: look, ask what "install"
Means: to bend the leads, push in, solder
Tightly and well, no crossing, to the board.
Lumps all over the green circuit board,
Yellow blue black etc., flip-side wires
Cut short, little silver domes of solder
With the leads set up just right, bent
Just right to stay in when you flip it over to install
Them so they don't fall out, but lost is better than broken.
The one transistor, Q1, J310, broken,
Lying against the also-black of the countertop, board
Loudly near, demanding, "Just install
It already, ****** Just the two of three wires
On the Q1, last one lying lonely bent
Crying out, hollering, screaming for solder.
Look at the one straight piece of solder,
Two leads protruding from one hole, broken
Off by careless, melting hands, left stranded on the board,
Cut off from the spool, low melting point, easily bent.
It looks just like "one of the boys," the real wires.
Copper wires conduct well, very ductile and easy to install.
When you are attempting this, to install
Everything in its place (and there is one), beware excess solder;
Too much crosses from hole to hole, uniting two wires,
Shorting it out and leaving you drifting with a broken,
Useless green hunk of circuitry and electronics (a board,
A dead board), which is just as useless as your leads which are too bent.
Some of these **** parts come pre-bent
(Why not each?), real easy to slide in and install,
Just bend slightly after sliding into the board,
Slightly enough to hold for the solder
Which is to come, assuming it's not broken
Yet, and that yours are still whole wires.
On the back, at the end, identical dots of solder
Run the length of the board. If it's not broken,
Run a current through; see if you get a shock by the wires.
Jul 7, 2010
Jul 7, 2010 at 10:54 AM UTC
i could go to the courtyard, if i wanted to.
i won't, but i'll pretend to, so i get the heady rush of possibility.
but i never told you why i love the smell of rain and you never told me why you love like rain
i guess we're even,
i guess we can't rely on karma to get by.
i think you should know that i love you, or used to love you, or will love you
i think you should know about the incisions. three over your heart and around it
and, and darling, is it too late to tell you about the fireplace? i hope not.
it's ashy and unused. we make a fine pair
you can be the puppeteer, if you want
i your perfect marionette (pale and pretty,
pearls at my throat)
your mind is racing. do you remember the cave, princess?
sorry, i know, you hate it when i call you that.
do you remember the blood on my hands? do you remember tipping my chin up, drinking it in
first the blood and then me
it was fast, but i understand. self control is a luxury
we can't all afford to be precise.
but, sweetheart, you misfired, didn't you? or didn't fire at all, meant to fire but forgot.
you don't like hospitals. you don't like orders and you don't like order
i know this. we both do.
(i know why you sit the way you do, back ramrod straight.
you're afraid of falling.)
you're afraid of your reflection
you ask me to paint you and when i'm finished
you bite your lip. "you look like your
father," i lie through my teeth
you couldn't be more different. i love this about you.
you listen to the same three albums on repeat
when i get tired of hearing them i ask you, measured
to please turn the volume down.
you turn it up,
smiling like you know a secret that i don't.
i stop asking you for things. it's okay,
this is normal.
you stopped answering me a long time ago, anyway.
when i turn to look at you, your fair hands are stained red. i do not breathe.
we stay like this, quiet and unsure
you filling the silence for me.
if you do love me, it's not in the way that everyone talks about
it's a hurricane love. this is not like breathing
it's like drowning
but you taught me to swim twelve years ago in a kiddie pool in the backyard
and i know i will never leave you. my strings are clutched too tight in your fists.
i move around but not beyond you. this is how it has always been.
when you kiss me, i taste metal on your tongue.
my mouth comes away red and i do not care
loving you is a blood sport anyway.
i will fold into you, become a bullet,
cry myself hoarse.
this is the only way i can be close to you.
i could go into the courtyard, if i wanted to, but you're there
and i don't want you to know about me.
Jul 25, 2014
Jul 25, 2014 at 9:10 AM UTC
Today I saw a man
He was sitting by the road
I couldn't see his face
But, his feelings...well, they showed
All of his belongings
Were beside him in a cart
I wanted to approach
But, my feet just wouldn't start
Today I saw a man
Picking butts up from the street
I crossed the road to pass him
And our paths, they didn't meet
He was searching in the gutter
For tobacco for a smoke
I didn't venture near him
Just in case he spoke
Today I saw a man
Sleeping in the park
It was early in the morning
It wasn't even dark
He was covered with a jacket
With a paper by his head
He slept just like a child
He looked like he was dead
Today I saw a man
In fatigues and baseball cap
Saluting at the cenotaph
I felt my heart fall to my lap
He saluted ramrod perfect
As just a soldier can
today, I learned a lesson
Today...I saw a Man
Mar 19, 2016
Mar 19, 2016 at 5:24 PM UTC
The young boy walked on through the park
His mother close behind
But then he took off swiftly, though
She knew that she would find
Him standing at the Cenotaph
Saluting, ramrod straight
He did it everytime they passed
No matter what the date
He knew that is was honorable
A place to honur those
Who died defending what was right
And every time he froze.
Each time they went to ride the swings
He ran ahead to stand
He did it, and she was proud he did
Though he didn't understand
A silent sentinel...piegeon perch
Memorialized the dead
There were pigeons all around it
And two piegeons on the head
But Billy didn't mind the birds
In fact he liked to say
The piegeons are the soldier men
Who can no longer play
He always walked around all sides
Always looking for the names
Of his father and his uncle
Bill and Randy James
They were taken by an IED
Though that meant nothing to Bill
But each time that he found their names
He then saluted and stood still
He knew that they would not return
Although gone, their names were here
He saluted them each time he came
Of the pigeons, he'd no fear
This silent, solemn cenotaph
Was a place he loved so much
Although he couldn't see his father
His name plate he could touch
He knew that his saluting
Made his mother's heart strings sing
After his silent hello to his dad
He could go play on the swing...
Jul 26, 2015
Jul 26, 2015 at 11:23 AM UTC
What would it be to be a soldierTo seek the God of war,To make your mind a death machineTo long for peace no more.To make your sinew hard as ironYour muscle ripcord tough,To bend your thinking mercy freeYour soul enshrined in rough.Conformity in dress attireMeticulous black shine,The gun oil on your sidearmThat rigid stance in line.The taughtness when you march en massThe crunch of boots on stone,The flash of steel with bayonet thrustThat splash of blood on bone. Your hatred for the enemyA lust for ****** war,Abhorrence for a personal styleJust compliance with the corps.The stare that sees a thousand yardsThe spines are ramrod straight,The disciplined magnificenceThe Corps d’Esprit is great! Afghanistan & GazaMogadishu and TehranThe terror strips are globalAnd they’re hell for beast and man.To imagine you’ll enjoy yourselfIs madness to extreme.If you’ve seen a man's face liquefyIn a flailing shrapnel stream.If you’ve felt the fear of God nearbyWhen tribals mount a charge,With the shriek of “Allah Ahkbar”And the stench of death at large. “See The World”, the poster said“Free Training for a Trade”,Develop stiffness in your spineWith the army you’ll be made.Comradeship, companionshipIs the essence of the force,A fast, pack march of twenty clicksAnd chanting till you’re hoarse.The Sergeant kicks your backsideThe corporal licks your boots,Lieutenant has you dodging leadWhist digging trenching routes.The Major trims his moustacheThe General drives right past,Dismissing all the riffraffWho are well beneath his class. This-is-the-Army All khaki and brassy shine,You get to brandish riflesAnd wear berets when in line.So pull that chin in soldierKeep the thumbs straight when you march,Or we’ll have you peeling spuds or worse,...We’ll ream your young white **** You wanted to be manlyYou longed to make your mark,You signed up to be countedNow you're Army, hard and stark.So give it all you’ve got young manBend your back and be a knave,the alternative is purgatoryEngulfed, consumed, enslaved.Now you're in for the durationMake the most of what you’ve gotOr they’ll Court Marshal you tomorrowAnd with pageantry.. YOU'LL BE SHOT!MarshalgMangere Bridge27th April 2008
Feb 26, 2010
Feb 26, 2010 at 9:17 AM UTC
*Airbrushed watercolors
steal tonight,
Majestic acrylics
like royal purple,
lavender & reds-
silken sheets a mess
boldly he molds
her to his skillful hands,
browns & blues, pinks & greys.
Flesh tones meshed in silhouettes
Lips
touching in the sweetest embrace,
as his body joins with hers.
Slowly
masculine hands
hold her tightly
while his ramrod manhood finds it's mark.
Her
tulips open moist for him
&
his honey dew kisses scorch her coco skin,
leaving her heated with each caress of his lips,
burning with each touch of his fingers,
she's never tasted such desire,
from sun up to sun down,
he's ready & willing.
Her
tiny whimpers & plea's escape her
as
his tantalizing assault
causes her to convulse inside & out..
Her
release continues to intensify
and
he's like a caged beast
trapped- with her tightly
pinned beneath him
as
he pounds deeply
within her velvet walls.
She's moaning, clinging,
legs wrapped round his waist,
nails digging deeply
in & down
his back with each stroke
with
each ******
she's moving in sync crying out
as
he causes such havoc
on her body,
scorning her skin
with
each lavish
flick of his tongue.
It's morning and the day breaks
rays of sunlight
streams into
their bedroom,
he's yet to be done
and
for hours now
her body's been
his canvas.
He's painted her
wild & wanton
seductive & brazenly wicked
he's stroked her
rose bud ****** assorted colors
against her velvet walls,
masterfully opened
and
vigorously
he strummed
her tulips to spread widely
on his canvas.
He's melted her to him
and
there's no other place she'd rather be
than on-*
His Canvas.
Always Me Ayeshah ®
Copyright ©
Ayeshah
K.C.L.N 1977 - Present YEAR(s)
All right reserved ®
Dec 29, 2013
Dec 29, 2013 at 4:55 AM UTC
it's been a few weeks, and
i'm trying my best,
though i can still hear
some voices in my head.
i'm trying to go blind,
trying to do and not
escape from real life.
but it's hard to stay here,
standing ramrod still,
when there's dancing around me
that's making me ill. i can't
find a shortcut or some way out
so instead i'm just looping these
feelings around
and around, like a cassette tape
being rewound,
looping and looping the same
tired sound.
taking all of this in is a bit
of a struggle and i'm finding
that i'm drowning
inside of this puddle and god,
i'm not much of a believer
but i sure think i'd like
if you could send me a sign. i need
some reason, give me a rhyme because
i'm trying to force these words out
but here i am typing and i can't
hear a sound
it's like radio silence from every single end
and i know it's just school
i know it's just them
and i know it's that friendless
might be my middle name,
right between selfish and
still-can't-tell-you-the-game,
can't give you a clue,
can't bring you the truth,
even though i'm advising other people
on how to do what they do. so maybe my
first name is hypocritical and my
last might be *****
but at least that's an itch i'm
quite familiar with,
and oh god i think i'm crazy
i can't see straight right now,
the typing of keys, the clicking of
cows, i might need a break,
i'm getting one now.
but i still see your face, and
try as i might, i'm fighting
your sweetness,
oh my god i hate this,
can you stop it please?
dear god can you hear me,
can you consider my pleas?
i'm not very special and
quite wish-washy,
but i think i need your
guidance because i'm lost and
without, help me decide
where my heart is standing,
help it find solid ground so i can make
a soft landing.
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 2:27 PM UTC
She moves slowly in her parlor
in the fading light of day.
In her time she was a beauty,
celebrated on the stage.
From ingénue to has-been
was a short eventful trip.
A cup from which a never-was
Perhaps would like to sip.
Even in her eighties
Her pose is ramrod straight
As when she was a lovely teen
pursued by the rich and great.
She loved the man her husband killed,
She never loved her mate.
When Harry Thaw killed Stanford White
Karma chose the place and date.
Apr 5, 2013
Apr 5, 2013 at 8:57 PM UTC
That is as good as it gets:
Mrs Hushbenway gazing
at herself in the mirror.
Her husband lies in bed
staring at her back; her
backside squatted on the
small stool of the dressing
table, her back ramrod straight,
her hair in a mess. She grimaces,
shows her teeth, licks her lips.
He takes in her fading pink
nightie, the dark pink *******
showing through, the way she
sits there gazing at her face,
the way she grimaces. Enough
to sink ships, he thinks, not saying.
He imagines she’s some other,
some younger specimen, sitting
there, slim figure, maybe naked,
brushing her hair. She is talking
now, he assumes it is small talk,
some neighbour’s husband or
kid or some new baby on the way,
or some dress she’d seen, but not
in her size. He thinks of the old days,
the days of rough and tumble, times
of getting in late, falling into bed
and having it off before deep sleep.
She’s asking him a question, no
idea what, he tries to bluff, to pretend
he had not heard too well. She
turns and stares, her big eyes, cow
like, brown and liquidy as diarrhoea,
search him, brings on the pretend
fear, the good husband pose. Ah yes,
now he’s heard, knows the answer,
what she’d want him to say and he
does and she turns satisfied and brushes
her locks, having lost her looks. He
knows her well, knows her funny ways,
her little lived in world, her way of
seeing things, of saying things, the
words she prefers, leaving out words
not hers, like **** and **** and ****
and **** words he likes to sprout in
anger if banging toe or elbow. Now
she undresses, takes off the clothing
piece by piece, he hums the striptease
tune, but she's not amused, and gives
him her stare. Oh you, he thinks, who
could sink a thousand ships, whose
face could turn the tides of sea, shut
thy cackle, come kiss, remember me.
Feb 15, 2013
Feb 15, 2013 at 3:05 AM UTC
my words
splinter and die
rodent feet
pointing ramrod into the
smeared horizon of prose
frozen with rigor mortise and
dread, dread, dead
in a lingering way,
completely unlike the
clean bleach
coffin sealed
pool of blood way
you idealize
this is
rotting and putrid,
there is no
embalming fluid
for bad poetry
Feb 4, 2014
Feb 4, 2014 at 10:23 AM UTC
In the beginning
Was a reboot. God
Running his fingers
Over the 1s and 0s
Of our artificial minds
Bending
Its language
Backward. Let himself
A small grin; Einstein
Founded a theory for the way
Light bent
Through
And not
Ran
Ramrod straight
Into hardened walls.
Called it,
“Quantum,” traced,
With the tips
Of his numbers
The merciful
Fragments
Of our misshapen
Universe,
And too smiled
At our salvation.
Jan 28, 2015
Jan 28, 2015 at 4:06 AM UTC
Raindrops explode on the impacted soil;
Dryer, so much dryer, so much harder than I thought.
One drop here and there and scars appear on the floury surface.
No wind today and the arrows find their mark
Again
And again
Until a surface pooling forms:
But nothing more.
Relentless ramrod shafts pound the ground
And its substance shifts and softens to absorb the blows
And take what nourishment it can.
Hardened against extremes it struggles
To release the tension of the grains that cling
To one another.
The rain ceases. It leaves and
In private
The earth allows some of the moisture to soak through.
Like a hard heart softening at the sight of compassionate tears -
Like the gruff response that guards an open heart.
Oct 8, 2016
Oct 8, 2016 at 7:19 AM UTC
An awkward photo depicts me as an Army private
squeezed in my polyester dress green uniform
with few medals and commendations
emblazoned on my still-burgeoning chest.
My posture is ramrod.
My earnestness is apparent.
Home on leave, I stand incongruously
as a warfighter straight out of basic
in front of white walls in lily-white suburbia.
Everything about the photo is awkward.
Everything about the photo is embarrassing
except how my mother displayed it
in a cheap pharmacy frame with
Swelling pride on her mantle.
Jul 21, 2017
Jul 21, 2017 at 3:11 AM UTC
Lips moistened
brown sugared sweetness imparted
with lick of her tongue
kisses prepared
she will have her way
in that negligee
sheer and barely there
my emotions ensared
slowly peels it away
I sit and stare
ramrod straight
ready to share
here she comes now
its her rule of law
I cannot wait
for sugar in the raw
molasses high
as my blood sugar climbs
devour her syrup
as it continually drips
Taste my sweetness
I give it to you
you coaxed it from me
I'm no longer blue.
Nov 5, 2016
Nov 5, 2016 at 5:25 PM UTC
She plays with her food,
pushing it around on the plate,
watching the vegetables roll
and the chicken broth drip,
the aroma is mouthwatering.
She tries not to make eye contact with her food
so not to think of the tender juiciness
the chicken would bring,
soon to explode on her tongue,
the crisp crunch the vegetables
will make when they touch her teeth.
She can feel the hunger growing inside her,
an angry beast trying to claw its way out
that she's suppressed for far too long.
She wonders if eating is worth the risk
as she looks down and observes each
part of her frame that isn't ramrod straight,
remembering that she'll never be good enough for anyone,
not even herself.
Dropping her fork as if it were a worm,
she tried not to give eye contact
to the dismantled family sitting at the dismantled table.
"May I be excused?"
Apr 14, 2022
Apr 14, 2022 at 3:36 PM UTC
pure white ****** paper
my pen emerges
ramrod lustful
to take it into bed
as if with every contact
pumping and thrusting
whirls and whorls
lines and curves
between gasps
of commas and periods
it could soon
********* the seeds
from hope’s garden
Feb 21, 2017
Feb 21, 2017 at 6:57 AM UTC